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Wagner. But of tho world— the heart, the mind of man. 
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Incapable to keep their full hearts in, 

Thej% from the first o’f immemorial time. 

Were crucified or burnt. 

^ Goethe’s Faust, MS. Version. 


®CT[X> €Mtion. 


NEW YORK: 

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• 705. Beauchampe 30 

V 


INTRODUCTION. 


IT is, no doubt, a departure from the general laws of ^Taiure, 
when we exhibit, in a work of art, in fiction, the exercise of any 
one passion exclusively; when, as in the case of Miss Joanna 
Baillie, in her “ Plays of the Passions,” we endeavor to individ- 
ualize a single passion to the exclusion of all the rest, and 
seek to build our interest entirely upon the exercise of the one 
feature, or quality of mind or heart, which we have thus estab- 
lished in this morbid ascendency. Nature does not usually 
work after this fashion. The passions dwell in groups and fam 
ilies, and there is perpetual play and co-operation between 
them. One of them may, indeed, exercise a predominating 
power; but the others are still visibly working, as tributaries — 
certainly a portion of them — and their presence is to be de- 
tected in the general agency ; affording that sort of relief to 
the person in whose fortunes the chief interest lies, without 
which a passion resolves itself finally into madness. There is 
little question, indeed, that not only do most madnesses arise 
from such an absorbed condition of the mind, which thus subju- 
gates all the energies to a single faculty, and compels them in a 
single direction, and keeps them intensely exercised and sorely 
straitened ; but that all intensity, which throws a single passiou 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


into extreme superiority, for any length of time, so as to leave 
the rest wholly in abeyance, will so impair the intellectual 
strength as to render of questionable sanity all the perform- 
ances of the party while in this condition. That this condition 
does and must exist occasionally, we know ; for we have mad- 
ness and monomania in the world : but, as it is the policy of 
neither moralist nor dramatist to select a madman for his hero, 
so it is false practice in art, and a great mistake, so to individu- 
alize a passion until it acts like madness — unless, where we 
make the character wholly subordinate to the fiction, and use 
it merely as a part of the inferior agency in bringing about 
results which are requisite for the large conditions of the story ; 
and even this must be done very judiciously, and without ma- 
king a too free use of the morbid agency. 

I am not sure that I have not erred against my own rule 
in the tale which follows ; but I am sure that I have had no 
purpose to violate it. Inoeed, the form of monomania which 
I have here sought to delineate, I have endeavored t^ relieve 
by shows of other passions — nay, by the free exercise of 
other passions, and strong ones too — which would, under 
other circumstances, in the case of an individual trained by a 
more indulgent fortune, have fully availed to neutralize the one 
moral plague-spot, which, let to grow, and stimulated in its 
growth by external pressure, became finally, in the case of my 
hero, big enough, not only to cover the whole heart, but to im- 
pair the vigorous working of an otherwise noble bra'n. Self- 
esteem is, here, a passion ; ambition, a passion ; love, a passion : 
there are nice sensibilities, an honorable spirit, great gentle- 
ness, warm sympathies, and many talents. But the self-esteem, 
in an ambitious nature, goaded by continual wrong, grows into 
one of the most jealous of all passions ; and, in the case of one 
equally endowed with a fine heart and noble faculties, it is apt 
to put on the most subtle as well as the most fiery form of jeal- 
ousy. The jealousy of self-esteem, by-the-way, !s of far greater 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


intensity than that which springs from mortified affections alone ^ 
and this is the source of the diseased development which I here 
delineate. — Jhlnough, perhaps, on this head, particularly as my 
object, throughout the tale, has been to make the hero lay bare 
the secret of his own disease, and, step by step, to exhibit its 
successive symptoms. 

Portions of the following narrative were among the earliest 
prose-writings of the author. The materials are gathered from 
facts, in a domestic history, the sources of which he believes to 
be unquestionable. Some of the events occurred, indeed, un- 
der bis own observation. Of this early manuscript he had 
almost lost all recollection, until he happened upon it while 
exploring the contents of a large mass of similar beginnings of 
his youth. The reperusal of the fragment possessed his mind 
so warmly with the subject, that he could not resist the desire 
to resume it. Attempting to arrange it for the press, he was 
led away by his own interest in the psychological history ; and 
the work grew beneath his hands to a size far exceeding his 
original purpose, which contemplated nothing more than the 
construction of a rapid magazine article. 

A work so growing, without design, may be strictly legiti- 
mate, as the natural progress of the author’s mind to the solu- 
tions of his problems, yet fail in every essential, as a work of 
interest for the reader, or even of art. The mere logical array 
of facts, distribution and arrangement of the proper relations of 
parties and events — all these, however well done, may yet con- 
stitute no more claim to art than may be urged in behalf of a 
well-put law argument. The defect in design will most proba- 
bly be a loss of warmth and color to the picture, to speak in 
the language of the studio. Such a process of gradual expan- 
sion, without heed to the design, is liable to many dangers and 
objections, in addition to the deficiency already mentioned ; not 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


day by day, to the labors of the anatomist merely — to bare 
the nerves, and sinews, and tissues,, and limbs, which we should 
prefer to clothe and color — is apt to become a somewhat dreary, 
even when an exciting, performance; and this is the danger 
always of one who, in fiction, works under the surface^ rejecting 
those exhibitions of the moods externally which supply the per- 
formance with its incidents. We j^refer the salient action to 
the contemplation of the silent agony; would rather behold 
the action than have it described to us; must see Richard 
writhing upon his couch, even while we listen to his dream ; 
and are apt to feel it somewhat wearisome to trace the secret 
necessity of the soul, even though, in doing so, we are allowed 
to pierce its most hidden mysteries. We prefer to hear it cry 
aloud its agonies, rather than take upon ourselves the labor of 
seeking them where they lie concealed, and watching the secret 
struggles by which they are subdued. 

To readers, therefore, who are simply in search of incident, 
and that sort of interest which appeals to the blood rather than 
the brain, it may be well, by way of caution, and to prevent 
unreasonable expectation, to say that this “ Confession of the 
Blind Heart” offers very little encouragement. It partakes of 
few of the features of that school of Dumas, and Reynolds, and 
Ainsworth, in which the heart is made to roar out its hopes or 
sufferings, under incessant provocation and stimuli. It has its 
“ disastrous chances ;” but with few of those “ moving accidents 
by flood and field” — those “hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the immi- 
nent deadly breach” — which so richly garnish in general the 
tales of these popular writers. 

Its interest is required to arise from other sources. It con- 
templates another class of readers The^ trials and troubles of 
the hero are not only those of simple, domestic life, but they 
are of the sensibilities rather than the blood — diseased sensi- 
bilities, where the passions, exciting and erring, develop them- 
selves in faults, vices, and weaknesses, rather than in crimes ; 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


and where, even when crime occurs, it is motiveless as crime, 
not purposed as crime, but, under a blind judgment, as justice 
simply. The attempt is made to analyze the heart in some of 
its obliquities and perversities ; to follow its toils, pursue its 
phases, and to trace, if possible, the secret of its self-deceptions, 
its self-baffling inconsistencies, its seemingly wilful warfare with 
reason and the sober experience. This is the simple design of 
the narrative, which, with great unity of plan and purpose, 
lacks all the usual varieties of art in prose fiction. It belongs, 
somewhat, to the class of works which the genius of Godwin 
has made to triumph in “ Caleb Williams,” even over a per- 
verse system. 

The writer reviews his work, now that it is finished (and 
now again when he revises its pages for the last time), with 
many misgivings. He is not blind to the difficulty of describing 
the struggles of a blind heart — taking that one heart up, almost 
alone, and making it narrate its own dreary consciousness of 
wrong-doing, of wrong-enduring, and of equal suffering in both 
conditions. Perhaps there can be no performance more diffi- 
cult — none less likely to appeal to the merely popular reader 
— less likely to be successful, in common opinion, unless with 
>a small and peculiarly-constituted circle. There is no relief to 
the picture — no background, or it is all background — gloomy 
even with its glare — an ominous shadow hanging like a cloud 
over the whole, and serving as the curtain which, half the time, 
conceals the sacrifice. Success, of a popular kind, is rarely 
possible in any work of fiction where events, which naturally 
speak for themselves, are mostly rejected from use ; where the 
whole history depends for development upon the silent progress 
of the thoughts, and sentiments, and emotions — the passions 
themselves working as under-currents of moods and feelings — 
moods which look, but speak not, and feelings that boil for ever 
in fiery fountains, but are never suffered to overflow ! A sin- 
gle soul is here selected from the rest, put in bonds, put to the 

1 * 

♦ 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


torture, and made"^to declare its dreary experience through itf 
groans. It is' to suffer, not to act. It has no foil, no assistants, 
there is no chorus ; no other actors are suffered on the scene. 
Its cry is necessarily a monotone. Its own intensity must sup- 
ply the absence of exciting action. Can it make itself heard, 
felt — secure justice, compel sympathy — by this one cry of 
agony ? That is the question. In degree with the intensity 
of its own agony, its own severe simplicity and truth, its own 
earnest feeling of sincerity, and the injustice of its suffering 
under the decree of an ingeniously perverse fate, will be the 
credence we accord to its appeal. It speaks, or not, to the 
purpose, as one giving evidence. Perhaps, like the frequent 
witness in other courts, it may speak some — nay, much — yet 
not the whole truth. The writer, however, has striven that 
such should not be the case. He has conducted the cross- 
examination with a searching scrutiny ; and, if any matters of 
evidence are left unrevealed, the fault is rather in the lawyer 
than the witness. The courteous reader will be pleased to per- 
ceive this fault in neither. In neither — we answer for both— 
is it wilful. 


WOOPI.AFDB, 8. C., Mareht 1856. 


W. G. 8. 


CONFESSION, 

OR 

THE BLIND IIEABT. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Who dares bestow the infant his true name 1 
The few who felt and knew, but blindly gave 
Their knowledge to the multitude — they fell 
Incapable to keep their full hearts in, 

They, from the first of immemorial time. 

Were crucified or burnt.” — Goethe^s Faust. 

The pains and penalties of folly are not necessarily death, 
'Fhey were in old times, perhaps, according to the text, and he 
w ho kept not to himself the secrets of his silly heart was surely 
crucified or burnt. Though lacking in penalties extreme like 
these, the present is not without its own. All times, indeed, 
have their penalties for folly, much more certainly than for 
crime ; and this fact furnishes one of the most human argumentR 
in favor of the doctrine of rewards and punishments in the fu- 
ture state. But these penalties are not always mortifications 
and trials of the flesh. There are punishments of the soul ; the 
spirit ; the sensibilities ; the intellect — which are most usually 
the conseq^uences of one’s own folly. There is a perversity of 
mood which is the worst of all such penalties. There are tor- 
tures which the foolish heart eq^ually inflicts and endures. The 
passions riot on their own nature ; and, feeding as they do upop 


L 


12 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

tliat bosom from which they spring, and in which they flourisli, 
may, not inaptly, be likened to that unnatural brood which 
gnaws into the heart of the mother-bird, and sustains its exist- 
ence at the expense of hers. Meetly governed from the be- 
ginning, they are dutiful agents that bless themselves in their 
own obedience ; but, pampered to excess, they are tyrants that 
never do justice, until at last, when they fitly conclude the work 
of destruction by their own. 

The narrative which follows is intended to illustrate these 
opinions. It is the story of a blind heart — nay, of blind hearts 
— blind through their own perversity — blind to their own in- 
terests — their own joys, hopes, and proper sources of delight. 
In narrating my own fortunes, I depict theirs; and the old 
leaven of wilfulness, which belongs to our nature, has, in greater 
or less degree, a place in every human bosom. 

I was the only one surviving of several sons. My parents 
died while I was yet an infant. I never knew them. I was 
left to the.'doubtful charge of relatives, who might as well have 
been strangers ; and, from their treatment, I learned to doubt 
and to distrust among the first fatal lessons of my youth. I felt 
myself unloved — nay, as I fancied, disliked and despised. I 
was not merely an orphan. I was poor, and was felt as burden- 
some by those connections whom a dread of public opinion, 
rather than a sense of duty and .affection, persuaded to take me 
to their homes. Here, then, when little more than three years 
old, I found myself— a lonely brat, Avhom servants might flout 
at pleasure, and whom superiors only regarded with a frown. 
I was just old enough to remember that I had once experienced 
very different treatment. I had felt the caresses of a fond 
mother — I had heard the cheering accents of a generous and a 
gentle father. The one had soothed my griefs and encouraged 
my hopes — the other had stimulated my energies and prompted 
my desires. Let no one fancy that, because I was a child, these 
lessons were premature. All education, to be valuable, must 
begin with the child’s first efforts at discrimination. Suddenly, 
both of these fond parents disappeared, and I was just young 
enough to wonder why. 

The change in my fortunes first touched my sensibilities, 
which it finally excited until they became diseased. Neglected. 


THE ORPHAN. 


13 


if not scorned, I habitually looked to encounter nothing but 
neglect or scorn. The sure result of this condition of mind was 
a look and feeling, on my part, of habitual defiance. I grew 
up with the mood of one who goes forth with a moral certainty 
that he must meet and provide against an enemy. But I am 
now premature. 

The uncle and aunt with whom I found shelter were what is 
called in ordinary parlance, very good people. They attended 
the most popular church with most popular punctuality. They 
prayed with unction — subscribed to all the charities which had 
publicity and a fashionable list to recommend them — helped 
to send missionaries to Calcutta, Bombay, Owyhee, and other 
outlandish regions — paid their debts when they became due 
with commendable readiness — and were, in all out-of-door re- 
spects, the very sort of people ‘who might congratulate them- 
selves, and thank God that they were very far superior to their 
neighbors. My uncle had morning prayers at home, and my 
aunt thumbed Hannah More in the evening ; though it must be 
admitted that the former could not always forbear, coming from 
church on the sabbath, to inquire into the last news of the 
Liverpool cotton market, and my aunt never failed, when they 
reached home, on the same blessed day, to make the house 
ring with another sort of eloquence than that to which she had 
listened with such sanctimonious devotion from the lips of the 
preacher. There were some other little offsets against the per- 
fectly evangelical character of their religion. One of these — 
the first that attracted my infant consideration — was naturally 
one which more directly concerned myself. I soon discovered 
that,, while I was sent to an ordinary charity school of the 
country, in threadbare breeches, made of the meanest material 
— their own son — a gentle and good, but puny boy, whom their 
indulgence injured, and, perhaps, finally destroyed — was de- 
spatched to a fashionable institution which taught all sorts of 
ologies — dressed in such choice broadcloth and costly habili- 
ments, as to make him an object of envy and even odium among 
all his less fortunate school-fellows. 

Poor little Edgar ! His own good heart and correct natural 
understanding showed him the equal folly of that treatment to 
which he was subjected, and the injustice and unkindness whicli 


14 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

distinguished mine. He strove to make amends, so far as I was 
concerned, for the error of his parents. He was my playmate 
whenever he was permitted, but even this permission was qual- 
ified by some remark, some direction or counsel, from one or 
other of his parents, which was intended to let him know, and 
make me feel, that there was a monstrous difference between us. 

The servants discovered this difference as quickly as did the 
objects of it; and though we were precisely of one age^ and I 
was rather the largest of the two, yet, in addressing us, they 
paid him the deference which should only be shown to superior 
age, and treated me with the contumely only due to inferior 
merit. It was “Master Edgar,” when he was spoken to — and 
“you,” when I was the object of attention. 

I do not speak of these things as of substantial evils affecting 
my condition. Perhaps, in one or more respects, they were 
benefits. They taught me humility in the first place, and made 
that humility independence, by showing me that the lesson was 
bestowed in. wantonness, and not with the purpose of improve- 
ment. And, in proportion as my physical nature suffered their 
neglect, it acquired strength by the very roughening to which 
that neglect exposed it. In this I possessed a vast advantage 
over my little companion. His frame, naturally feeble, sunk 
under the oppressive tenderness to which the constant care of 
a vain father, a doting mother, and sycophantic friends and ser- 
vants, subjected it. The attrition of boy with boy, in the half-man- 
ly sports of schoolboy life — its very strifes and scuffles — would 
have brought his blood into adequate circulation, and hardened 
his bones, and given -elasticity to his sinews. But from all these 
influences, he was carefully preserved and protected. He was 
not allowed to run, for fear of being too much heated. He could 
not jump, lest he might break a blood-vessel. In the ball play, 
he might get an eye knocked out ; and even tops and marbles 
were forbidden, lest he should soil his hands and wear out the 
knees of his green breeches. If he indulged in these sports it 
was only by stealth, and at the fearful cost of a falsehood on 
every such occasion. When will parents learn that entirely to 
crush and keep down the proper nature of the young, is to pro- 
duce inevitable perversity, and stimulate the boyish ingenuity 
to crime ? 


TttE ORPHAN. 


16 


With me the case was very different. If cuffing and kicking 
Could have killed, I should have died many sudden and severe 
deaths in the rough school to which I was sent. If eyes were 
likely to he lost in the campus, corded balls of India-rubber, or 
still harder ones of wood, impelled by shinny (goff) sticks, would 
have obliterated all of mine though they had been numerous as 
those of Argus. My limbs and eyes escaped all injury ; my 
frame grew tall and vigorous in consequence of neglect, even 
as the forest-tree, left to the conflict of all the winds of heaven ; 
while my poor little friend, Edgar, grew daily more and more 
diminutive, just as some plant, which nursing and tendance 
within doors deprive of the wholesome sunshine and generous 
breezes of the sky. The paleness of his cheek increased, the 
languor of his frame, the meagernesV of his form, the inability 
of his nature ! He was pining rapidly away, in spite of that 
excessive care, which, perhaps, had been in the first instance, 
the unhappy source of all his feebleness. 

He died — and I became an object of greater dislike than 
ever to his parents. They could not but contrast my strength 
with his feebleness — my improvement with his decline — and 
when they remembered how little had been their regard for me. 
and how much for him — without ascribing the difference of 
result to the true cause — they repined at the ways of Provi- 
dence, and threw upon me the reproach of it. They gave me 
less heed and fewer smiles than ever. If I improved at school, 
it was well, perhaps ; but they never inquired, and I could not 
help fancying that it was with a positive expression of vexation, 
that my aunt heard, on one occasion, from my teacher, in the 
presence of some guests, that I was likely to be an honor to 
the family. 

“ An honor to the family, indeed !” This was the clear ex- 
pression in that Christian lady’s eyes, as I saw them sink im- 
mediately after in a scornful examination of my rugged frame 
and coarse garments. 

The family had its own sources of honor, was the calm opin- 
_ ion of both my patrons, as they turned their eyes upon their 
only remaining child — a little girl about five years old, who 
was playing around them on the carpet. This opinion was also 
mine, even then : and my eyes followed theirs in the same 


16 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


direction. Julia Clifford was one of the sweetest little fairies 
in the world. Tender-hearted, and just, and generous, like the 
dear little brother, whom she had only known to lose, she was 
yet as playful as a kitten. I was twice her age — just ten — 
at this period ; and a sort of instinct led me to adopt the little 
creature, in place of poor Edgar, in the friendship of my boyish 
heart. I drew her in her little wagon — carried her over the 
brooklet — constructed her tiny playthings — and in considera-^ 
tion of my usefulness, in most generally keeping her in the best 
of humors, her mother was not unwilling that I should be her 
frequent playmate. Nay, at such times she could spare a gentle 
word even to me, as one throws a bone to the dog, who has 
jumped a pole, or plunged into the water, or worried some other 
dog, for his amusement. At no other period did my worthy 
aunt vouchsafe me such unlooked-for consideration. 

But Julia Clifford was not my only friend. I had made another 
shortly before the death of Edgar ; though, passingly it may be 
said, friendship-making was no easy business with a nature such 
as mine had now become. The inevitable result of such treat- 
ment as that to which my early years had been subjected, was 
fully realized. I was suspicious to the last degree of all new 
faces — jealous of the regards of the old; devoting myself where 
my affections were set and requiring devotion — rigid, exclusive 
devotion — from their object in return. There was a ternble 
earnestness in all my moods which made my very love a thing 
to be feared. I was no trifler — I could not suffer to be trifled 
with — and the ordinary friendships of man or boy can not long 
endure the exactions of such a disposition. The penalties are 
usually thought to be — and are — infinitely beyond the rewards 
and benefits. 

My intimacies with William Edgerton were first formed under 
circumstances •which, of all others, are most likely to establish 
them on a firm basis in our days of boyhood. He came to my 
rescue one evening, when, returning from school, I was beset by 
three other boys, who had resolved on drubbing ,me. My 
haughty deportment had vexed their self-esteem, and, as the 
same cause had left me with few sympathies, it was taken for 
granted tliat the unfairness of their assault would provoke no 
censure. They were mistaken. In the moment of my greatest 


THE ouphan. 


11 


difficulty, William Edgerton dashed iu among them. My exigen 
cy rendered his assistance a very singular benefit. My nose wafi 
already broken — one of my eyes sealed up for a week’s holy day ; 
and I was suffering from small annoyances, of hip, heart, leg, and 
thigh, occasioned by the repeated cuffs, and the reckless kicks, 
which I was momently receiving from three points of the compass. 
It is true that my enemies had their hurts to complain of also ; but 
the odds were too greatly against me for any conduct or strength 
of mine to neutralize or overcome ; and it was only by Edgerton’s 
interposition that I was saved from utter defeat and much worse 
usage. The beating I had already suffered. I was sore from 
head to foot for a week after ; and my only consolation was 
that my enemies left the ground in a condition, if anything, 
something worse than my own. 

But I had gained a friend, and that was a sweet recompense, 
sweeter to me, by far, than it is found or felt by schoolboys 
usually. None could know or comprehend the force of my 
attachment — my dependence upon the attachment of which I felt 
assured ! — none but those who, with an earnest, impetuous nature 
like my own — doomed to denial from the first, and treated with 
injustice and unkindness — has felt the pang of a worse privation 
from the beginning ; — the privation of that sustenance, which is 
the “ very be all and end all” of its desire and its life — and the 
denial of whicli chills and repels its fervor — throws it back in 
despondency upon itself — fills it with suspicion, and racks it 
with a never-ceasing conflict between its apprehension and its 
hopes. 

Edgerton supplied a vacuum which my bosom had long felt. 
He was, however, very unlike, in most respects, to myself. 
He was rather phlegmatic than ardent — slow in his fancies, and 
shy in his associations from very fastidiousness. He was too 
much governed by nice tastes, to be an active or. perforniing 
youth ; and too much restrained by them also, to be a popular 
one. This, perhaps, was the secret influence which brought us 
together. A mutual sense of isolation — no matter from what 
cause — awakened the sympathies between us. Our ties were 
formed, on my part, simply because I was assured that I should 
have no rival ; and on his, possibly, because he perceived in my 
haughty reserve of character, a sufficient security that his fas- 


18 


CONFESSION, OR -iriE BLIND HEARt. 


tidious sensibilities would not be likely to suffer outrage at 
hands. In every other respect our moods and tempers were 
utterly unlike. I thought him dull, very frequently, when be 
was only balancing between jealous and sensitive tastes; — and 
ignorant of the actual, when, in fact, his ignorance simply arose 
from the decided preference which he gave to the foreign and 
abstract. He was contemplative — an idealist ; I was impetuous 
and devoted to the real and living world around me, in which I 
was disposed to mingle with an eagerness which might have been 
fatal ; but for that restraint to which my own distrust of all things 
and persons habitually subjected me. 


BOY PASBIONS, 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

BOY PASSIONS — A PROFESSION CHOSBN. 

Between William Edgerton and Julia Clifford my young 
life and best affections were divided; entirely, if not equally. I 
lived for no other — I cared to seek, to know, no other — and 
yet I often shrunk from both. Even at that boyish period, while 
the heavier cares and the more painful vexations of life were 
wanting to our annoyance, I had those of that gnawing- nature, 
which seemed to be born of the tree whose evil growth “ brought 
death into the world and all our wo.” The pang of a nameless 
jealousy — a sleepless distrust — rose unbidden to my heart at 
seasons, when, in truth, there was no obvious cause. When 
Julia was most gentle — when William was most generous — 
even then, I had learned to repulse them with an indifference 
which I did not feel — a rudeness which brought to my heart a 
pain even greater than that which my wantonness inflicted upon 
theirs. I knew, even then, that I was perverse, unjust; and 
that there was a littleness in the vexatious mood in which I 
indulged, that was unjust to my own feelings, and unbecoming 
in a manly nature. But even though I felt all this, as thoroughly 
as I could ever feel it under any situation, I still could not suc- 
ceed in overcoming tha' insane will which drove me to its indul- 
gence. 

Vainly have I striven to aepount for the blindness of heart — 
for such it is, in all such cases — which possessed me. Was thpre 
anything in my secret nature, born at my birth and growing 
with my growth — which impelled me to this wilfulness. I can 
scarcely believe so ; but, after serious reflection, am compelled 
to think that it was the strict result of moods growing out of the 
particular treatment to which I had been subjected. It does 
pot seem unnatural that an ardent temper of mind, willing to 


CONFESSION, Oii THE BLIND HEART. 

confide, looking to love axid afifection for tlie only aliment wliicli 
it most and chiefly desires, and repelled in this search, frowned 
on by its superiors as if it were something base, will, in time, 
grow to be habitually wilful, even as the treatment which has 
schooled it. Had I been governed and guided by justice, I am 
sure that I should never have been unjust. 

My waywardness in childhood did not often amount to rudeness, 
and never, I may safely say, where Julia was concerned. In 
her case, it was simply the exercise of a sullenness that repelled 
her approaches, even as its own approaches had been repelled 
by others. At such periods I went apart, communing sternly 
with myself, refusing the sympathy that I most yearned after, 
and resolving not to be comforted. Let me do the dear child th 
justice to say that the only effect which this conduct had upon 
her, was to increase her anxieties to soothe the repulsive spirit 
which should have offended her. Perhaps, to provoke this 
anxiety in one it loves, is the chief deske of such a spirit. It 
loves to behold the persevering devotion, which it yet perversely 
toils to discourage. It smiles within, with a bitter triumph, as 
it contemplates its own power, to impart the same sorrow which 
a similar perversity has already made it feel. 

But, without seeking further to analyze and account for such 
a spirit, it is quite sufficient if I have described it. Perhaps, 
there are other hearts equally froward and wayward with my 
own. I know not if my story will amend — perhaps it may 
not even instruct or inform them — I feel that no story, however 
truthful,, could have disarmed the humor of that particular mood 
of mind which shows itself in the blindness of the heart under 
which it was my lot to labor. I did not want knowledge of my 
own perversity. I knew — I felt it — as clearly as if I had seen 
it written in characters of light, on the walls of my chamber. 
But, until it had exhausted itself and passed away by its own 
processes, no effort of mine could have overcome or banished it. 
I stalked apart, under its influence, a gloomy savage — scornful 
and sad — stern, yet suffering — denying myself equally, in the 
perverse and wanton denial to which I condemned all otheis. 

Perhaps something of this temper is derived from the yearn- 
ings of the mental nature. It may belong somewhat to the 
natural direction of a mind having a decided tendency to imagD 


BOY PASSIONS. 


21 


native pursuits. There is a dim, vague, indefinite struggle, for 
ever going on in the nature of such a person, after an existence 
and relations very foreign to the world in which it lives ; and 
equally far from, and hostile to that condition in which it thrives. 
The vague discbntent of such a mind is one of the causes of its 
activity ; and how far it may be stimulated into diseased inten- 
sity by injudicious treatment, is a question of large importance 
for the consideration of philosophers. The imaginative nature 
is one singularly sensitive in its conditions > quick, jealous, 
watchful, earnest, stirring, and perpetually breaking down the 
ordinary barriers of the actual, in its struggles to ascertain the 
extent of the possible. The tyranny which drives it from the 
ordinary resources and enjoyments of the young, by throwing 
it more completely on its own, impels into desperate activity 
that daring of the imaginative mood, which, at no time, is want- 
ing in courage and audacity. My mind was one singularly 
imaginative in its structure ; and my ardent temperament con- 
tributed largely to its activity. Solitude, into which I was 
forced by the repulsive and unkind treatment of my relatives, 
was also favorable to the exercise of this influence ; and my 
heart may be said to have taken, in turn, every color and aspect 
which informed my eyes. It was a blind heart for this very 
reason, in respect to all those things for which it should have 
had a color of its own. Books and the woods — the voice of 
waters and of song — the dim mysteries of poetry, and the whis- 
pers of lonely forest-walks, which beguiled me into my self, and 
mo.re remotely from my fellows, were all, so far as my social 
relations were concerned, evil influences ! Influences which 
were only in part overcome by the communion of such gentle 
beings as William Edgerton and Julia Cliflbrd. 

With these friends, and these only, I grew up. As my years 
advanced, my intimacy with the former increased, and with the 
latter diminished. But this diminution of intimacy did not lessen 
the kindness of her feelings, or the ordinary devotedness of 
mine. She was still — when the perversity of heart made mo 
not blind — the sweet creatui’e to whom the task of ministering 
was a pleasure infinitely beyond any other which I knew. But, 
as she grew up to girlhood, other prospects opened upon her 
eyes, and other purposes upon those of her parents. At twelve 


22 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

she was carried by maternal vanity into company — sent to 
the dancing-school — provided with teachers in music and paint- 
ing, and made to understand — so far as the actions, looks, and 
words of all around could teach — that she was the cynosure of 
all eyes, to whom the whole world was bound in deference. 

Fortunately, in the case of Julia, the usual effects of mater- 
nal folly and indiscretion did not ensue. Nature interposed to 
protect her, and saved her in spite of them all. She was still 
the meek, modest child, solicitous of the happiness of all around 
her — unobtrusive, unassuming — kind to her inferiors, respect- 
ful to superiors, and courteous -to, and considerate of all other 
persons. Her advancing years, which rendered these new ac- 
quisitions and accomplishments desirable, if not necessary, at 
the same time prompted her foolish mother to another step 
which betrayed the humiliating regard which she entertained 
for me. When I was seventeen, Julia was twelve, and when 
neither she nor myself had a solitary thought of love, the over- 
considerate mother began to think, on this subject, for us both. 
The result of her cogitations determined her that it was no 
longer fitting that Julia should be my companion. Our rambles 
in the woods together were forbidden; and Julia was gravely 
informed that I was a poor youth, though her cousin — an orphan 
whom her father’s charity supported, and whom the public 
charity schooled. The poor child artlessly told me all this, in 
a vain effort to procure from me an explanation of the mystery 
(which her mother had either failed or neglected to explain) by 
which such circumstances were made to account for the new 
commands which had been given her. Well might she, in her 
simplicity of heart, wonder why it was, that because I was poor, 
she should be familiar with me no longer. 

The circumstance opened my eyes to the fact that Julia was 
a tall girl, growing fast, already in her teens, and likely, under 
the rapidly-maturing influence of our summer sun, to be soon a 
woman. But just then — just when she first tasked me to solve 
the mystery of her mother’s strange requisitions, I did not think 
of this. I was too much filled with indignation — the mortified 
self-esteem was too actively working^in my bosom to suffer me 
to think of anything but the indignity with which I was treated. 
A brief portion of the dialogue between the child and my 


sot PASSI0^^S. 23 

self, will give some glimpses of the blind heart by whi;h 
I was afflicted. 

“Oh, you do not understand it, Julia. You do not know, 
then, that you are the daughter of a rich merchant — the only 
daughter — that you have servants to wait on you, and a car 
riage at command — that you can wear fine silks, and have all 
things that money can buy, and a rich man’s daughter desire. 
You don’t know these things, Julia, eh?” 

“ Yes, Edward, I hear you say so now, and I hear mamma 
often say the same things ; but still I don’t see — ” 

“ You don’t see why that should make a difference between 
yourself and your poor cousin, eh? Well, but it does; and 
though you don't see it now, yet it will not be very long before 
you will see, and understand it, and act upon it, too, as promptly 
as the wisest among them. Don’t you know that I am the 
object of your father’s charity — that his bounty feeds me — and 
that it would not be seemly that the world should behold nuj 
on a familiar footing of equality or intimacy with the daughter 
of my benefactor — my patron — without whom I should prob 
ably starve, or be a common beggar upon the highway ?” 

“ But father would not suffer that, Edward.” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! — he would not suffer it, Julia, simply because 
his own pride and name would feel the shame and disgrace of 
such "a thing. But though he would keep me from beggary and 
the highway, Julia, neither he nor your mother would spend a 
sixpence or make an effort to save my feelings from pain and 
misery. They protect me from the scorn of others, but they use 
me for their own.” 

The girl hung her head in silence. 

“And you, too,” I added — “the time will come when you, 
too, Julia, will slnink as promptly as themselves from being 
seen with your poor relation. You — ” 

“No! no! Edward — how can you think of such a thing?” 
she replied with girlish chiding. 

“ Think it ! — I know it ! The time will soon be here. But 
— obey your mother, Julia. Go) leave me now. Begin at 
once the lesson which, before many days, you will find it very 
easy to learn.” 

This was all very manly, so I fancied at the time ; and theu 


‘24 CONFESSION, oii THE BLIND HEART. 

blind with the perverse heart which boiled within me, I felt not 
the wantonness of my mood, and heeded not the bitter pain 
which I occasioned to her gentle bosom. Her little hand 
grasped mine, her warm tears fell upon it ; but I flung away 
from her grasp, and left her to those childish meditations which 
I had made sufficiently mournful.* 

Subsequent reflection, while it showed me the brutality of 
my conduct to Julia, opened my eyes to the true meaning of 
her mother’s interdiction ; and increased the pang of those bit- 
ter feelings, which my conscious dependence had awakened in 
my breast, it was necessary that this dependence should be 
lessened ; that, as I was now approaching manhood, I should 
cast about for the future, and adopt wisely and at once the 
means of my support hereafter. It was necessary that I should 
begin the business of life. On this head I had already reflected 
somewhat, and my thoughts had taken their direction from more 
than one conference which I had had with William Edgerton. 
His father was an eminent lawyer, and the law had been adopted 
for his profession also. I determined to make it mine ; and to 
speak on this subject to nry uncle. This I did. I chose an 
afternoon, the very week in which my conversation had taken 
place with Julia, and, while the dinner things were undergoing 
removal, with some formality requested a private interview 
with him. He looked round at me with a raised brow of in- 
quiry — nodded his head — and shortly after rose from the table. 
My aunt stared with an air of supercilious wonder ; while poor 
Julia, timid and trembling, barely ventured to give me a single 
look, which said — and that was enough for me — “I wish I 
dared say more.” 

My conference with my uncle was not of long duration. I 
told him it was my purpose — my desire — to, begin as soon as 
possible to do something for myself. His answer signified that 
such wa« his opinion also. So far we were agreed ; but when I 
told him that it was my wish to study the law, he answered 
with sufficient, and as I thought, scornful abruptness : — 

‘'The law, indeed! What puts the law into your head? 
What preparations have you made to study the law? You 

know nothing of languages which every lawyer should know 

Latin — ” 


A PROFESSION CHOSEN. 


25 


I interrupted him to say that I had some slight knowledge 
of Latin — sufficient, I fancied, for all legal purposes. 

“ Ah ! indeed ! where did you get it V* 

“ A friend lent me a grammar and dictionary, and I studied 
myself.” 

‘‘ Oh, you are ambitious ; but you deceive yourself. You were 
never made for a lawyer. Besides, how are you to live while 
prosecuting your studies ? No, no! I have been thinking of some- 
thing for you, Edward — and, just now, it happens fortunately 
that old Squire Farmer, the bricklayer, wants some apprentices — ” 

I could scarcely listen thus far. 

“ I thank you, sir, but I have no disposition to be a brick- 
layer.” 

“ You must do something for yourself. You can not expect to 
eat the bread of idleness. I have done, and will do for you 
what I can — whatever is necessary; — but I have my own 
family to provide for. I can not rob my own child ” 

“ Nor do I expect it, Mr. Clifford,” I replied hastily, and with 
some indignation, “ It is my wish, sir, to draw as little as pos- 
sible from your income and resources. I would not rob J ulia 
Clifford of a single dollar. Nay, sir, I trust before many years 
to be able to refund you every copper which has been spent 
upon me from the moment I entered your household.” 

He said hastily : — 

“ I wish nothing of that, Edward; — but the law is a study of 
years, and is expensive and unpromising in every respect. Your 
clothes already call for a considerable sum, and such a proh s- 
sion requires, more than almost any other, that a student sliould 
be well dressed.” 

“ I promise you, sir, that my dress shall be such as shall not 
trespass upon your income. I shall be governed by as much 
economy ” 

He interrupted me to say, that 

“ His duty required that his brother’s son should be dressed 
as well as his associates.” 

I replied, with tolerable composure : — 

“ I do not think, sir, that bricklaying will admit of very gen- 
teel clothing, nor do I think that the vocation will suit me. I 
have flattered myself, sir, that my talents ” 

2 


26 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Oh, you have talents, then, have you ? Well, it is fortunate 
that the discovery has been made in season.” 

I bore with this, though my cheek was burning, and said — 
with an effort to preserve my voice and temper, in which, though 
the difficulty was great, I was tolerably successful — 

“ You have misunderstood me in some things, Mr. Clifford ; 
and I will try now to explain myself clearly in others. Having 
resolved, sir, that the law shall be roy profession ” 

“ Ha ! resolved, say you V' 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Well, go on — go on!” 

“ Having resolved to pursue the study of law, and seeing that 
I am burdensome and expensive to you — believing, too, that 
I can relieve you of the burden — I have simply requested per- 
mission of you to make the attempt.” 

“ Why, how do you propose to do so ? — how can you support 
yourself — that is relieve me of the burden of your expenses — 
and study the law at the same time ?” 

“ Such things have been done, sir ; and can be done again. I 
flatter myself I can do it. Industry will enable me to do so. I 
propose to apply for a clerkship in a mercantile establishment 
which I know stands in need of assistance, and while there will 
pursue my studies in such intervals of leisure as the business will 
afford me.” 

“ You seem to have the matter ready cut and dry.. Why do 
you come to me, then ? Remember, I can make no advances.” 

“ I need none, sir. My simple object with you, sir, was to 
declare my intention, and to request that I may be permitted 
to refer to you the merchants to whom I mean to apply, for a 
knowledge of my character and attainments.” 

“ Oh, certainly, you may — for the character ; — but as to the 
attainments” — with a sneering smile — “of them I can say 
nothing, and, perhaps, the less said the better. I’ve no doubt 
you’ll do well enough with the merchants. It does not need 
much genius or attainment for such situations. But, if you’ll 
take my counsel, you’ll go to the bricklayer. We want brick- 
layers sadly. To be a tolerable lawyer, parts are necessary ; 
and God knows the country is over-stocked with hosts of 
lawyers already, whose only parts lie in their impudence. 


A PROFESSION CHOSEN. £7 

Better think a little while longer. Speak to old Farrier 
yourself.” 

I smiled bitterly — thanked him for his counsel, which was 
oiily a studied form of insult, and turned away from him without 
further speech, and with a proud swelling of indignation at my 
heart. Thus our conference ended. A week after, I was en- 
sconced behind the counter of a wholesale dealer, and my hands 
at night were already busy in turning over the heavy folios of 
Oliitty and Blackstone. 


m 


CONFESSION, OR THE HEART. 


CliAPTER It 

ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYER.". 

Behold me, then, merchandising by day, and conning hy night 
the intricate mysteries of law. Books for the latter purpose were 
furnished by my old friend, William Edgerton, from his father’s 
library. He himself was a student, beginning about the same 
time with myself ; though with the superior privilege of devoting 
himself exclusively to this study. But if he had more time, I 
was more indefatigable. My p"ide was roused, and emulation 
soon enabled me to supply the want of leisure. My nights were 
surrendered, almost wholly, to my new pursuit. I toiled with 
all the earnestness which distinguished my temperament, stimu- 
lated to a yet higher degree by those feelings of pride and pique, 
which were resolved to convince my skeptical uncle that I was 
not entirely without those talents, the assertion of which had so 
promptly provoked his sneer. Besides, I had already learned 
that no such scheme as mine could be successfully prosecuted, 
unless by a stern resolution ; and this implied the constant pres- 
ence of a close, undeviating method in my studies. I tasked 
myself accordingly to read — understandingly, if possible — so 
many pages every night, making mj^otes, queries, doubts, &c., 
cn passant. In order to do this, I prescribed to myself a rule, 
to pass directly from the toils of the day and the store to 
my chamber, suffering no stoppage by the way, and studiously 
denying myself the dangerous fascinations of that society which 
was everywhere at command, in the persons of young men about 
my own age and condition. The intensity of my character, and 
the suspiciousness which it induced, helped me in this determi- 
nation. Perhaps, there is no greater danger to a young man’s 
habits of study and business, than a chat at the street corner, 
with a merry and thoughtless group. A single half hour con 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


29 


Burned in this manner, is almost always fatal to the remaining 
hours of the day. It breaks into the circle, and impairs the 
method without which the passage of the sun becomes a very 
weary and always an unprofitable progress. If you would be a 
student or anything, you must plunge headlong into it at the be- 
ginning — bury yourself in your business, and work your way 
out of your toils, by sheer, dogged industry. 

My labors were so far successful that I could prosecute my 
studies with independence. I had left the dwelling of my uncle 
the moment I took employment in the mercantile house. My 
salary, though small, was ample ; with my habits, it was par- 
ticularly so. I had few of those vices in which young men are 
apt to indulge, and which, when they become habits, cease un- 
happily to be regarded as vices. I used tobacco in no shape, 
and no ardent spirits. I needed no stimulants, and, by the way, 
true industry never does. It is only indolence that needs drink ; 
and indolence does need it ; and the sooner drunkenness kills 
indolence by the use of drink, the better for society. The only 
objection to liquors as an agent for ridding the community of a 
nuisance, is, that it is rather too slow, and too ofiensive in its 
detailed operations ; arsenic would be far less offensive, more 
summary, and is far more certain. You would seek vainly to 
cure drunkenness, unless you first cure the idleness which is its 
root and strength, and, while they last, its permanent support. 
But my object is not homily. 

If I was free from vices such as these, however, I had vices 
of my own, which were only less odious as they were less 
obvious. That vexing, self-tormenting spirit of which I have 
spoken as the evil genius that dogged my footsteps — that moral 
perverseness which I have described as the “blind heart” — 
still afflicted me, though in a- far less degree now than when I 
was the inmate of my uncle’s dwelling, and exposed to all the 
caprices of himself, his wife and servants. I kept on good terms 
with my employers, for the very natural reason that they saw 
me attend to my business and theirs, with a hearty cheerfulness 
that went to work promptly in whatever was to be done, and 
executed its tasks with steady fu’titude, neatness, and rapidity. 
But, even with them, I had my sulks — my humors — my stub- 
born fits of sullenness, that seemed anxious to provoke opposi- 


JO CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

tion, and awaken wrath. These, however, they considerately 
forga'v^e in consideration of my real usefulness : and as they per- 
ceived that whatev.er might have been the unpleasantness occa- 
sioned by these specimens of spleen, they were never suffered 
to interfere with or retard the operations of business. “ It’s an 
ugly way he’s got,” was, probably, the utmost extent of what 
either of the partners said, and of what is commonly said on 
such occasions by most persons, who do not care to trouble 
themselves with a too close inquiry. 

Well, at twenty-one, William Edgerton and myself were ad- 
mitted to the practice of the law, and that too with considerable 
credit to ourselves. I had long since been carried by my friend 
into his family circle ; and Mr. Edgerton, his father, had been 
pleased to distinguish me with sundry attentions, which were 
only grateful to me in consequence of the unusual deference 
with which his manner evinced his regard. His gentle inquiries 
and persuasive suggestions beguiled me into more freedom of 
speech than I had ever before been accustomed to ; and his 
judicious management of my troubled spirit, for a time, stifled 
its contradictions, and suppressed its habitual tendencies. But 
it was with some jealousy, and an erectness of manner which 
was surely ungracious, though, perhaps, not offensive, that I 
endured and replied to his inquh-ies into my personal condition, 
my resources, and the nature of that dependence which I bore 
to the family of my uncle. When he learned — which he did 
not from me — in what manner I had pursued my studies — after 
what toils of the day, and at what late hours of the night — 
when he found from a close private examination, which he had 
given me, before my admission, that my knowledge of the law 
was quite as good as the greater number of those who apply 
for admission — he was pleased to express his astonishment at 
my perseverance, and delight at my success. When, too, in 
addition to this, he discovered, upon a minute inquiry from my 
employers and others, that I was abstemious, and indulged in 
no excesses of any kind, his interest in me increased, as I 
thought, who had been accustomed to nothing of the sJrt, be- 
yond all reasonable measure — and I soon had occasion to per- 
ceive that it was no idle curiosity that prompted his considera- 
tion and inquiry. 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


31 


Without my knowledge, he paid a visit to my uncle. Thig 
gentleman, I may he permitted here to say, had been quite as 
much surprised as anybody else, at my determined prosecution 
of my studies in spite of the difficulties by which I was sur- 
rounded. That I was pursuing them, while in the mercantile 
establishment to which I had gone, he did not believe ; and 
very frequently when I was at his house — for I visited the 
family, and sometimes, though unfrequently, dined with them 
on a sabbath — he jeered me on my progress — the “wonderful 
progress,” as he was pleased to term it — which he felt sure I 
was making with my Coke and Blackstone, while baling blan- 
kets, or bundling up plains and kerseys. This I bore patiently, 
sustained as I was by the proud, indomitable spirit within me, 
which assured me of the ultimate triumph which I felt positive 
would ensue. ” enjoyed his surprise — a surprise that looked 
something like consternation — when the very day of my ad- 
mission to the bar, and after that event, I encountered him in 
the street, and in answer to his usual sarcastic inquiry ; — 

“Well, Edward, how does the law come on? How is Sir 
William Blackstone, Sir Edward Coke, and the rest of the white 
heads ?” 

I simply put the parchment into his hands which declared 
my formal introduction to those venerable gentry. 

“ Why, you don’t mean ? Is it possible ? So you really are 
admitted — a lawyer, eh ?” 

“You see, sir — and that, too, without any Greek.” 

“Well, and what good is it to do you? To have a profes- 
sion, Edward, is one thing ; to get business, another !” 

“Yes, sir — but I take it, the profession must be had first. 
One step is gained. That much is sure. The other, I trust, 
will follow in due season.” 

“ True, but I still think that the bricklayer would make the 
more money.” 

“Were money-making, sir, the only object of life, perhaps, 
then, that would be the most desirable business ; but — ” 

“ Oh, I forgot — the talents, the talents are to be considered.” 

And after the utterance of this sneer, our dialogue as may be 
supposed, did not much longer continue* 

1 did not know of the contemplated visit of Mr. Edgerton to 


32 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

my worthy uncle, nor of its purpose, or I should, most assuredly, 
have put my veto upon the measure with all the tenacity of a 
resentful spirit; hut this gentleman, who was a man of nice 
sensibility as well as strong good sense, readily comprehended 
a portion of my secret history from what was known to him 
He easily conceived that my uncle was somewhat of a niggard 
from the manner in which I had employed myself during my 
preparation for the bar. He thought, however, that my uncle; 
though unwilling to expend money in the prosecution of a scheme 
which he did not approve — now that the scheme was so far 
successful as to afford every promise of a reasonable harvest, 
could not do less than come forward to the assistance of one 
who had shown such a determined disposition to assist himself. 

He was mistaken. He little knew the man His interview 
with my uncle was a short one. The parties v,^ere already ac- 
quainted, though not intimately. They knew each other as 
persons of standing in the same community, and this made the 
opening of Mr. Edgerton’s business easy. I state the tenor of 
the interview as it came to my knowledge afterward. 

“ Mr. Clifford,” he said, you have a nephew — a young gen- 
tleman, who has been recently admitted to the bar — Mr. Ed- 
ward Clifford.” 

The reply, with a look of wonder was necessarily affirmative. 

“ I have had much pleasure,” continued the other, “ in know- 
ing him for some time. He is an intimate of my eldest son, 
and from what has met my eyes, sir, I should say, you are for 
tunate in having a nephew of so much promise.” 

“ Why, yes, sir, I believe he is a clever youth enough,” was 
the costive answer. 

“ He is more than that, sir. I regard him, indeed, as a most 
astonishing young man. The very manner in which he has 
pursued his studies while engaged in the harassing labors of a 
large wholesale business house of this city — alone establishes 
this fact.” 

The cheeks of my uncle reddened. The last sentence of 
Mr. Edgerton was unfortunate for his object. It conveyed a 
tacit reproof, which the niggardly conscience of Mr. Clifford 
readily appropriated and, perhaps, anticipated He dreaded 
lest Mr. Edgerton knew all. 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


33 


You are probablj aware, Mr. Eclgerton,” be replied with 
equal hesitancy and haste — “you have heard that Edward 
Clifford is an orphan — that he has nothing, and it was there- 
fore necessary that he should learn to employ himself ; though 
it was against my wish, sir, that he went into a mercantile 
house.” 

There was something suppressed in this — a mean evasion — 
for he could not easily have told Mr. Edgerton, without a blush, 
that, instead of the mercantile establishnient, he would have 
made me a bricklayer’s hodman. But this, it seems, Edgerton 
had found out for himself. His reply, however, was calculated 
to soothe the jealous apprehensions of Mr. Clifford. He had. 
an object in view, which he thought too important to risk for 
the small pleasure of a passing sarcasm. 

“ Perhaps, it has happened for the best, Mr. Clifford. You 
were right in requiring the young man to do for himself. Were 
I worth millions, sir, I should still prefer that my son should 
learn that lesson — that he should work out his own deliver- 
ance with the sweat of his own brow.” 

“ I agree with you, sir, perfectly,” replied the other, with 
increased complacency. “ A boy learns to value his money as 
he should, only when he has earned it for himself.” 

“Ah ! ‘it is not for this object simply,” replied Mr. Edgerton, 
“ that I would have him acquire habits of industry ; it is for 
the moral results which such habits produce — the firmness, 
character, consistency — the strength and independence — tem- 
perance, justice — all of which arise, and almost only, from 
obedience to this law. But it is clear that one can not do every- 
tlihig by himself, and this young man, though he has gone on 
in a manner that might shame the best of us, is still not so 
thoroughly independent as he fancies himself. It will be some 
time before he will be able to realize anything from his profes- 
sion, and he will need some small assistance in the meantime.” 

“ I can not help him,” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, abruptly — “ I 
have not the means to spare. My own family need everything 
that I can give. He has himself only to blame. He chose his 
profession for himself. I warned him against it. He needn’t 
send to me.” 

“ Do not mistake me, Mr. Clifford,” said Mr. Edgerton, calmly. 

2 * 


B4 CONFESSION, OR THE BRIND HEART. 

'*Your nephew knows nothing of my present visit. I would 
be loath that he should know. It was the singular independence 
of his mind that led me to the conviction, that he would sooner 
die than ask assistance from anybody, that persuaded me to 
suggest to you in what manner you might afford him an almost 
necessary help, without offending his sensibility.” 

“ Humph !” exclaimed the other, while a sneer mantled upon 
his lips. “You are very considerate, Mr. Edgerton ; but the 
same sensibilities might prompt him to reject the assistance 
when tendered.” 

“ No, sir,” replied Edgerton, mildly — “ I think I could man 
age that.” 

“ I am sorry, sir, that I can not second your wushes in any 
material respect,” was the answer of my uncle ; — “ but I will 
see Edward, and let him know that my house is open to him as 
it was from the time he was four years old ; and he shall have a 
seat at my table until he can establish himself more to his satis- 
faction ; but money, sir, in truth, I have not a cent to spare. My 
own necessities ” 

“ Enough, sir,” said Mr. Edgerton, mildly ; “ I take it for 
granted, Mr. Clifford, that if you could contribute to the success 
of your brother’s son, you certainly would neither refuse nor 
refrain to do so.” 

“Oh, surely — certainly not,” replied the other, hastily. 
“Anything that I could do — anything in reason, sir, I should 
be very happy to do, but 

And then followed the usual rigmarole about “ his own family,” 
and “ hard times,” and “ diminished resources,” and all those 
stereotype commonplaces which are for ever on the lips of stere- 
otype insincere people. Mr. Clifford did not perceive the dry 
and somewhat scornful inuendo, which lay at the bottom of Mr. 
Edgerton’s seemingly innocent assumption ; and the latter took 
his leave, vexed with himself at having made the unsuccessful 
application — but still more angry with the meanness of character 
which he had encountered in my uncle. 


8HE BOOTH EU THE MOCK OP OTliEIiB. 


CHAPTER IV 

' ** She still soothed 

The mock of others.^^ 

It is not improbable that, after a few hours given to calm re- 
flection, my uncle perceived how obnoxious he might be made to 
public censure for his narrow treatment of my claims ; and the 
next day he sent for me in order to tender me the freedom of 
his house — a tender which he had made the day before to Mr. 
Edgerton in my behalf. But his offer had been already antici- 
pated by that excellent friend that very day. Coming warm 
and fresh from his interview with my uncle, he called upon me, 
and in a very plain, direct, business-like, but yet kind and 
considerate manner, infonned me that he stood very much' in 
need of an assistant who would prepare his papers — did me the 
honor to say that he fancied I would suit him better than 
anybody else he knew, and offered me six hundred dollars for 
my labors in that capacity for the first year of my service. 
My engagement to him, he said at the same time, did not imply 
such entire employment as would incapacitate me for the execu- 
aon of any business which might be intrusted to my hands indi- 
vidually. I was permitted the use of a desk in his office, and 
was also permitted to hang out my own banner from his window 
I readily persuaded myself that I could be of service to Mr. 
Edgerton — such service as would, perhaps, leave my obligation 
a light one — and promptly acceded to his offer. He had scarce- 
ly departed when a servant brought a note from Mr. Clifford. 
Even while meditating what he fancied was a favor, he could not 
forbear the usual sneer. The following was his communication; 

“ Dear Edward ; If you can spare a moment from your 
numerous clients, and are not in a great hurry to make your de- 
posites, you will suffer me to see you at the office before two o’clock. 

“Yours affectionately, “ J. B. CiiiFFORD.” 


36 


COJfFESBION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“Very affectionately!”! exclaimed. It miglit be nothing 
more than a pleasantry which he intended by the offensive pas- 
sages in his note ; but the whole tenor of his character and con 
duct forbade this conviction. 

“ No ! no 1” I muttered to myself, as the doubt suggested itself 
to my mind; “ no ! no ! it is the old insolence — the insolence of 
pride, of conscious wealth — of power, as he thinks, to crush ! 
But he is mistaken. He shall find defiance. Let him but repeat 
those sarcasms and that sneer which are but too frequent on his 
lips when he speaks to me, and I will answer him, for the first 
lime, by a narration which shall sting him to the very soul, if 
he has one 1” 

This resolution was scarcely made when the image of Julia 
Clifford — the sweet child — a child now no longer — the sweet 
woman — interposed, and my temper was subdued of its resolve, 
though its bitterness remained unqualified. 

And what of Julia Clifford ? I have said but little of her for 
some time past, but she has not been forgotten. Far from it. 
She was still sufficiently the attraction that drew me to the dwel- 
ling of my selfish uncle. In the three years that I had been at 
the mercantile establishment, her progress, in mind and person, 
had been equally ravishing and rapid. She was no more the 
child, but the blooming girl — the delicate blossom swelling to 
the bud — the bud bursting into the flower — but the bloom, 'and 
the beauty, and the innocence — the rich tenderness, and the 
dewy sweet, still remained the same through all the stages of 
her progress from the infant to the woman. Wealth, and the 
arrogant example of those about her, had failed to change the nat- 
urally true and pure simplicity of her character. She was not to 
be beguiled by the one, nor misguided by the other, from the ex- 
quisite heart which was still worthy of Eden. When I was ad- 
mitted to the bar at twenty-one, she was sixteen — the age in our 
southern country when a maiden looks her loveliest. But I had 
scarcely felt the changes in the last three years which had been 
going on in her. I beheld beauties added to beauties, charms 
to charms ; and she seemed every day to be the possessor of fresh 
graces newly dropped from heaven ; but there was no change. 
Increased perfection does not imply change, nor does it suffer it. 

It was my custom, as the condescending wish of my untie 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OP OTHERS. 3T 

expressed, that I should take my Sunday dinner with his fami- 
ly. I complied with this request, and it was no hard matter to 
do so. But it was a sense of delight, not of duty, that made me 
comply ; aud, but for Julia, I feel certain that I should never 
have darkened the doors, which opened to admit me only through 
a sense, of duty. But the attraction — scarcely known to my 
self — drew me with singular punctuality ; and I associated the 
privilege which had been accorded me with another. I escorted 
the ladies to church ; sometimes, too, when the business of my 
employers permitted, I spent an evening during the week with 
the family ; and beholding Julia I was not over-anxious to per- 
ceive the indifference with which I was treated by all others. 

But let me retrace my steps. I subdued my choler so far as 
to go, with a tolerable appearance of calmness if not humility, to 
the interview which my uncle had been pleased to solicit. I 
j need not repeat in detail what passed between us. It amounted 
simply to a supercilious offer, on his part, of lodging and board, 
until I should be sufficiently indej)endent to open the oyster for 
myself. I thanked him with respect and civility, but, to his sur- 
prise, declined to accept his offer. 

“ Why, what do you propose to do he demanded. 

“ Do what I have been doing for the three past years ; work 
for myself, and pay my board from the proceeds of my own la- 
I bor.” 

I “ What, you go back to the merchants, do you ? You are wiser 
than I thought. The law would not give you your bread here 
for twenty years in this city.” 

“You are mistaken, uncle,” I said, good humoredly — “it is 
from the law that I propose to get my bread.” 

“Indeed! — You are even more sanguine than I thought 
you. But, pray, upon whai do you base your expectations? — 
the talents, I suppose.” 

I felt the rankling of this well-known and offensive sneer, but 
replied simply to the point : — 

“ No, sir, upon assurances which you will probably think far 
more worthy of respect. I have already been employed by Mr. 
Edgerton as an attorney, at a salary of six hundred dollars.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! Well, you are a fortunate fellow, I must say, to 
get such a helping hand at tlie outset. But you may want some 


38 


COi^FESSlON, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


small amount to begin with — you can not draw upon Mr. Edger 
ton before services are rendered, and if fifty or a hundred dol 
lars, Edward ” 

“ I thank you, sir; — so far from wanting money, 1 should b^ 
almost able to lend some. I have saved some two hundred from 
my mercantile salary ” 

I enjoyed the ghastly grin which rose to his features. It was 
evident that he was not pleased that I should be independent. 
He had set out with the conviction, when my father died, that 
my support and education would devolve upon him, and though 
they did not, yet it was plain enough to me that he was not un- 
willing that such should be the impression of the community. I 
had disarmed him entirely by the simplest process, and, mortified 
at being disappointed, he was disposed to hate the youth who had 
baffled him. It was the strangest thing in the world that such 
should be the feeling of any man, and that, too, in reference to 
so near a relation ; but the case is nevertheless true. I saw it in 
his looks that moment — I felt it in his accents. I /cnew that 
such was the real feeling in his soul. There are motives which 
grow from vanities, piques, rivalries, and the miserable ostenta- 
tions of a small spirit, which act more terribly upon the passions 
of man, than even the desire of gain or the love of woman. The 
heart of Mr. Clifford, was, after its particular fashion, a blind 
heart, like my own. 

“ Well, I am glad you are so well off. You will dine with us 
on Sunday, I suppose ?” 

My affirmative was a matter of course ; and, on Sunday, the 
evident gratification of Julia when she saw me, amply atoned 
for all her father’s asperities and injustice. . She had heard of my 
success — and though in a sneer from the lips of her father it was 
not the less productive of an evident delight to her. She met 
me with the expression of this delight upon all her features. 

“ I am so glad, so very glad, and so surprised, too. Cousin 
EdAvard, at your success. And yet you kept it all to yourself. 
You might have told nie^ at least, that you were studying law. 
Why was it that I was never allowed to know of your 
mtention ?” 

“ Your father knew it, Julia.” 

‘Yes, so he says now. He says you told him something 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OF OTHERS. 39 

about it when you first went into a store ; but he did not think 
you in earnest.” 

“ Not in earnest ! He little knew me, Julia.” 

“ But your telling him, Edward, was not telling me. Why 
did you not tell me ?” 

“ You might not have kept my secret, Julia. You know 
what naughty things are said of your sex, touching your inabil 
ity to keep a secret.” 

“Naughty things, indeed — naughty and untrue! I’m sure, 
I should have kept your secret, if you desired it. But why 
should it be a secret V’ 

“Why, indeed I” I muttered, as the shadow of my perverse 
ness passed deeply over my heart. “ Why, unless to protect 
myself from the sneers which would stifle my ambition, and the 
sarcasm which would have stung my heart.” 

“ But you have no fear of these from me, Cousin EdAvard,” 
she said gently, and with dewy eyes, while her fingers slightly 
pressed upon my wrist. 

“ I knoAv not that, Cousin .Julia, I somehow suspect every- 
thing and everybody now. I feel very lonely in the world — 
as if there was a destiny at Avork to make my whole life one 
long conflict, Avhich I must carry on without .sympathy or 
succor.” 

“ Oh, these are only notions, Edward.” 

“ Notions !” I exclaimed, giving her a bitter smile as I spoke, 
while my thoughts reverted to the three years of unremitting 
and almost uncheered labor through which I had passed. 

“ Yes, notions only. Cousin Edward. You are full of such 
notions. You every now and then start up with a new one ; 
and it makes you gloomy and discontented — ” 

“ I make no complaints, Julia.” 

“ No, that is the worst of it. You make no complaints, I 
think, because you do not wish to be cured of them. You pre- 
fer nursing your supposed cause of grief, with a sort of solitary 
pleasure — the gratification of a haughty spirit, that is too proud 
to seek for .solace, and to find it.” 

Julia had in truth touched upon the true nature of my mis- 
anthropy — of that self-vexing and self-torturing spirit, which 
too effectually blinds the heart. 


10 


CONFESSION. OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“But could I find it, Julia?” I asked, looking into her eyes 
with an expression which I began to feel was something veiy 
new to mine. 

“Perhaps — I think — you could,” was the half-tremulous 
answer, as she beheld the peculiar expression of my glance. 
The entrance of Mrs. Clifford, was, perhaps, for the first time, 
rather a relief to us both. 

*“ And so you are a lawyer, Edward ? Well, who would have 
thought of it? It must be a very easy thing to be made a 
laAvyer.” 

Julia looked at me with eyes that reddened with vexation. 
I felt my gorge rising ; but when I reflected upon the ignorance, 
and the unworthy nature of the speaker, I overcame the dispo- 
sition to retort, and smilingly replied : — 

“ It’s not such hard work as bricklaying, certainly.” 

^ “ Ah,” she answered, “ if it were only half so profitable. 
But Mr. Clifford says that a lawyer now is only anotlier name 
for a beggar — a sort of genteel beggar. The toAvn’s overrun 
with them — half of them live upon their friends.” 

“ I trust I shall not add to the number of this class, Mrs. 
Clifford.” 

“ Oh, no ! I know you never will, Cousin Edward,” exclaimed 
Julia, with a flush upon her cheeks at her own temerity. 

“ Really, Julia,” said her mother, “ you are very confident. 
How do you know anything about it ?” 

The sharp glances of rebuke which accompanied this speech 
daunted the damsel for a moment, and her eyes were suddenly 
cast in confusion upon the ground ; but she raised them with 
boldness a moment after, as she replied : — 

“We have every assurance, mother, for what I say, in the 
fact that Cousin Edward has been supporting himself at another 
business, while actually pursuing the study of law for tliesc 
three years ; and that very pride about which father spoke to- 
day, is another assurance — ” 

“ Bless my stars, child, you have grown very pert on a sud- 
den, to talk about guaranties and assurances, just as if you was 
a lawyer yourself. The next thing we hear, I suppose, will be 
that instead of being busy over the ‘ Seven Champions’ and the 
last fashions, you, too, will be turning over the leaves of big 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OF OTHERS. 41 

law-books, and carrying on such studies in secret to surprise a 
body, as if there was any merit or good in doing such things 
secretly.” 

Julia felt that she had only made bad worse, and she hung 
her head in silence. For my part, though I suppressed my 
choler, the pang was only the more keenly felt for the elfort to 
hide it. In my secret soul, I asked, “ Will the day never come 
when I, too, will be able to strike and sting?” I blushed an 
instant after, at the small and mean appetite for revenge that 
such an inquiry implied. But I came to the support of Julia. 

“ Let me say, Mrs. Clifford, that I think — nay, I know — that 
Julia is right in her conjecture. The guaranty which I have 
given to my friends, by the pride and industry which I have 
shown, should be sufficient to convince them what my conduct 
shall be hereafter. I know that I shall never trespass upon 
I their feelings or their pockets. They shall neither blush for 
I nor lose by their relationship with Edward Clifford.” 

“Well said! well spoken I with good emphasis and proper 
action. Forrest himself could scarce have done it better 1” 

Such was the exclamation of Mr. Clifford, who entered the 
room at this moment. His mock applause was accompanied by 
I a clamorous clapping of his hands. I felt my cheeks burn, and 
' my blood boil. The truth is, I was not free from the conscious- 
ness that I had suffered some of the grandiloquent to appear 
in my manner while speaking the sentence which had provoked 
the ridicule of my uncle. The sarcasm acquired increase of 
sting in consequence of its being partially well-merited. I re- 
plied with some little show of temper, which the imploring 
glances of Julia did not altogether persuade me to suppress. 
The “ blind heart” was growing stronger within me, from the 
increasing conviction of my own independence. In this sort of 
mimic warfare the day passed off as usual. I attended the 
ff-mily to church in the afternoon, took tea, and spent the even- 
ing with them — content to suffer the “stings and arrows” — 
however outrageous, of my exemplary and Christian aunt and 
uncle, if permitted to enjoy the presence and occasional smiles 
oi the true angel, whose influence could still temper my feelings 
:nt a humane and patient toleration of influences which they 
yet burned to trample under foot. 


42 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER V 

DEBUT. 

A brief interval now passed over, after my connection begun 
with Mr. Edgerton, in Avhich time the world went on with me 
more smoothly, perhaps, than ever. My patron — for so this 
gentleman deserves to be called — was as indulgent as I could 
wish. He soon discerned the weaknesses in my character, and 
with the judgment of an old practitioner, he knew how to sub- 
due and soften, without seeming to perceive them. I need not 
say that I was as diligent and industrious, and not less studious, 
while in his employ, than I had been in that of my mercantile 
acquaintance. The entire toils of the desk soon fell upon my 
shoulders, and I acquired the reputation among my small circle 
of acquaintance, of being a very good attorney for a young be- 
ginner. It is, true, I was greatly helped by the continued peru- 
sal of an admirable^ collection of old precedents, which a long 
period of extensive practice had accumulated in the collection 
of my friend. But to be an attorney, simply, was not the bound 
of my ambition. I fancied that the forum was, before all others, 
my true field of exertion. The ardency of my temper, the 
fluency of my speech, the promptness of my thought, and the 
warmth of my imagination, all conspired in impressing on me 
the belief that I was particularly fitted for the arena of public 
lisputation. This, I may add, was the opinion of Mr. Edger- 
ton also ; and I soon sought an occasion for the display of my 
powers. 

It was the custom at our bar — and a custom full of danger 
— for young beginners to take their cases from the criminal 
docket. Their “ ’prentice han’,” was usually exercised on some 
wretch from the stews, just as the young surgeon is permitted 
to hack the carcass of a tenant of the “ Paupers’ Field,” th^ 


D2BUT. 


41 


better to prepare him for practice on living and more worthy 
victims. Was there a rascal so notoriously given over to the 
gallows that no hope could possibly be entertained of his extri- 
cation from the toils of the evidence, and the deliberations of a 
jury, he was considered fair game for the young lawyers, who, 
on such cases, gathered about him with all the ghostly and keen 
propensities of vultures about the body of the horse cast out upon 
the commons. ^ 

The custom was evil, and is now, I believe, abandoned. It 
led to much irreverence among thoughtless young men — to an 
equal disregard of that solemnity which should naturally attach 
to the court of justice, and to the life of the prisoner arraigned, 
before it. A thoughtless levity too frequently filled the mind' 
of the young lawyer and his hearers, when it was known that 
the poor wretch on trial was simply regarded as an agent, 
through whose, miserable necessity, the beginner was to try 
his strength and show his skill in the art of speech-making. It 
was my fortune, acting rather in compliance with the custom 
than my own preference, to select one of these victims and oc- 
casions for my debut. I could have done otherwise. Mr. Ed- 
gerton freely tendered to me any one of several cases of his 
own, on the civil docket, in which to make my appearance; 
but I was unwilling to try my hand upon a case in which the 
penalty of ill success might be a serious loss to my friend’s 
client, and might operate to the injury of his business ; and, 
another reason for my preference was to be found — though not 
expressed by me — in the secret belief which I entertained that 
I was peculiarly gifted with the art of appealing to the pas- 
sions, and the sensibilities of my audience. 

Having made my determination, I proceeded to prepare my- 
self by a due consideration of the case at large ; the history 
of the transaction, which involved the life of my client — (the 
allegation was for murder) — and of the testimony of the wit- 
nesses so far as it had been suggested in the exparte examina 
tion before the grand jury. I reviewed the several leading 
principles on the subject of the crime ; its character, the sort 
of evidence essential to conviction, and certainly, to do myself 
all justice, as effectually prepared myself for the duties of the 
trial as probably any yrung man of the time and community 


41 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND Ht:ART. 


w& likely to have done. The case, I need not add, was hope- 
lessly against me ; the testimony conclusive ; and I had noth- 
ing to do hut to weigh its character with keen examination, 
pick out and expose its defects and inconsistencies, and suggest 
as plausible a presumption in favor of the accused, as could be 
reasonably made out from the possibilities and doubts by which 
all human occurrences are necessarily attended. Something, 
too, might lie done by judicious appeals to the principle of 
mercy, assuming for the jury a discretion on this subject which, 
by the way, they have no right to exercise. 

I was joined in the case by my friend, young Edgerton. So 
. far our boyish fortunes had run together, and he was not un- 
willing, though against his father’s counsel, to take the same 
occasion with me for entering the world in company. The 
term began ; the case was one of the last on the criminal 
docket, and the five days which preceded that assigned for the 
trial, were days, I am constrained to confess, of a thrilling and 
terrible agitation to my mind. I can scarcely now recall the 
feelings of that week without undergoing a partial return of 
the same painful sensations. My soul was striving as with it- 
self, and ‘seeking an outlet for escape. I panted, as if for 
breath — my tongue was parched — my lips clammy — my 
voice, in the language of the poet, clove to the roof of my . 
throat. Altogether, I have never felt such emotions either be- 
fore or since. 

I will not undertake to analyze them, or account for those 
conflicting sensations which make us shrink, with something 
like terror, from the very object which we desire. At length 
the day came, and the man ; attended by his father, William 
Edgerton, and myself, took our places, and stood prepared for 
the issue. I looked round me with a dizzy feeling of uncer- 
tainty. Objects appeared to swim and tremble before my 
sight. My eyes were of as little service to me then as if _they 
had been gazing to blindness upon the sun. Everything was 
confused and imperfect. I could see that the courthouse was 
filled to overflowing, and this increased my feebleness. The 
jase was one that had occasioned considerable excitement in 
the community. It was one of no ordinary atrocity. This was 
a sufficient reason why the audience should be large. There 


DEBUT. 


45 


was yet another. There were two new debutants. In a c .in- 
inunity where popular eloquence is, of all others, peihaps the 
most desirable talent, this circumstance was well calculated to 
bring many listeners. Besides, something was expected from 
both Edgerton and myself. We had not reached our present 
position without making for ourselves a little circle, in which 
we had friends to approve and exult, and enemies to depreciate, 
and condemn. 

The proceedings were at length opened by the attorney-geii' 
eral, the witnesses examined, and turned over to us for cross- 
examination. This part of the duty was performed by my as- 
sociate. The b'hsiness fairly begun, my distraction was les- 
sened. My mind, driven to a point, made a decisive stand : 
and the sound of Edgerton’s voice, as he proposed his questions, 
served still more to dissipate my confusion. I furnished him 
with sundry questions, and our examination was admitted to be 
quite searching and acute. My friend went through his part 
of the labor with singular coolness. He was in little or • no 
respect excited. He, perhaps, was deficient in enthusiasm. If 
there was no faltering in what he said, there was no fine 
phrensy. His remarks and utterance were subdued to the 
plainest demands of the subject. They were shrewd and sensi- 
ble, not particularly ingenious, nor yet deficient in the proper 
analysis of the evidence. He acquitted himself creditably. 

It was my part to reply to the prosecuting attorney ; but 
when I rose, I was completely confounded. Never shall I 
forget the pang of that impotence which seemed to overspread 
my frame, and to paralyze every faculty of thought and speech. 
I was the victim to my own ardor. A terrible reaction of mind 
had taken place, and I was prostrated. The desire to achieve 
greatness — the belief that it was expected from me — the con- 
sciousness that hundreds of eyes were then looking into mine 
with hungering expectation, overwhelmed me ! I felt that I 
could freely have yielded myself for burial beneath the floor 
on which I stood. My cheeks were burning, yet my hands were 
cold as ice, and my knees tottered as with an ague. I strove 
to speak, however ; the eyes of the judge met mine, and they 
looked the language of encouragement — of pity. But this ex- 
pression only increased m^ confusion, I stammered out noth* 


46 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


ing but broken syllables and incoherent sentences. What 1 
was saying, I know not — how long I presented this melancholy 
spectacle of imbecility to the eyes of my audience, I know not. 
It may have been a few minutes only. To me it seemed an 
age ; and I was just endued with a sufficient power of reflec- 
tion to ask myself whether I had not better sit down at once 
in irreversible despair, when my wandering and hitherto vacant 
eyes caught a glance — a single glance — of a face opposite 

It was that of my uncle ! He was perched on one of the 
loftiest benches, conspicuous among the crowd — his eyes keen- 
ly fixed upon mine, and his features actually brightened by a 
smile of triumphant malice and exultation. 

That glance restored me. That single smile brought me 
strength. I was timid, and weak, and impotent no longer. 
Under the presence of habitual scorn, my habitual pride and in- 
dependence returned to me. The tremors left my limbs. The 
clammy huskiness which had loaded my tongue, and made it 
cleave to the roof of my mouth, instantly departed ; and my 
whole mind returned to my control as if beneath the command 
of some almighty voice. I now saw the judge distinctly — I 
could see the distinct features of every juryman ; and with the 
pride of my restored consciousness, I retorted the smile upon 
my uncle’s face with one of contempt, which was not without 
its bitterness. 

Then I spoke, and spoke with an intenseness, a directness of 
purpose and aim — a stern deliberateness — a fire and a feeling 
— which certainly electrified my hearers with surprise, if with 
no moje elevated emotions. That one look of hostility had 
done more for my mind than could have been effected in my 
behalf by all the kind looks and encouraging yoices of all the 
friends in creation. 

After a brief exordium, containing some general propositions 
on the subject of human testimony, which meant no more than 
to suggest the propriety of giving to the prisoner the benefit 
of what was doubtful and obscure in the testimony which had 
been taken against him — I proceeded to compare and contrast 
its several parts. There were some inconsistencies in the evi- 
dence which enable me to make something of a case. The 
ebaract^r of the witnesses was something more thap doubtful 


DEBUT. 47 

And that, too, helped, in a slight degree, my argument. This 
was rapid, direct, closely wound together, and proved — such 
was the opinion freely expressed by others, afterward — that I 
Iiad the capacity for consecutive arrangement of facts and in- 
ferences in a very remarkable degree. I closed with an appeal 
in favor of that erring nature, which, even in our own cases, 
led us hourly to the commission of sins and errors ; and which, 
where the individual was poor, wretched, and a stranger, under 
the evil influences of destitution, vicious associations, and a lot 
in life, which, of necessity, must he low, might well persuade 
us to look with an eye of qualified rebuke upon his offences. 

This was, of course, no argument, and was only to be con- 
sidered the natural close of my labors. Before I was half 
through I saw my uncle rise from his seat, and hastily leave the 
court-room ; and then I knew that I was successful — that I had 
triumphed, through that stimulating influence of his hate, over 
my own fears and feebleness. I felt sure that the speech must 
be grateful to the rest of my hearers, v/hich he could not stay 
to hear ; and in this conviction, the tone of my spirits became 
elevated — the thoughts gushed from me like rain, in a natural 
arid unrestrainable torrent of language — my voice was clear 
and full, far more so than I had ever thought it could be m-ade 
— and my action far more animated, perhaps, than either good 
taste or the occasion justified. The criminal was not acquitted ; 
but both William Edgerton and myself were judged to have 
been eminently successful. 

The result of my debut, in other respects, was flattering far 
beyond my expectations. Business poured in upon me. My 
old employers, the merchants, were particularly encouraging 
and friendly. They congratulated me warmly on my success, 
assured me that they had always thought I was better calcu- 
lated for the law than trade ; and ended by putting into my 
liands all their accounts that needed a legal agency for collec- 
tion. Mr. Edgerton was loud in his approbation, and that very 
week saw, his son and myself united in co-partnership, with the 
prospect of an early withdrawal of the father from business in 
.mr favor. Indeed, the latter gave us to understand that his 
only purpose now was to see us fairly under way, with a suffi- 
cient knowledge of the practice, and assured of the confidence 


48 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

of his own friends, in order to give his years and enfeebled 
health a respite from the toils of the profession. 

My worthy uncle, time to himself, played a very different 
part from these gentlemen. He hung back, forbore all words 
on the subject of my debut, and of the promising auspices 
under which my career was begun, and actually placed certain 
matters of legal business into the hands of another lawyer. 
Of this, he himself gave me the first information in very nearly 
this language ; — 

“ I have juut had to sue Yardle & Fellows, and a few others. 
Edward, and I thought of employing you, but you are young, 
and there may be some legal difficulties in the way ; — but when 
you get older, and arrive at some experience, we will see what 
can be done for you.” 

“ You are perfectly right, sir,” was my only answer, but the 
smile upon my lips said everything. I saw, then, that he could 
not smile. He was now exchanging the feeling of scorn which 
he formerly entertained for one of a darker quality. Hate was 
the necessary feeling which followed the conviction of his having 
done me wilful injustice — not to speak of the duties left undone, 
which were equally his shame. 

There were several things to mortify him in my progress. 
His sagacity as a man of the world stood rebuked — his con- 
duct as a gentleman — his blood as a relation, who had not 
striven for the welfare and good report of his kin, and who had 
suffered unworthy prejudices, the result of equal avarice and 
arrogance, to operate against him. 

There is nothing which a base spirit remembers with so much 
malignant tenacity as your success in his despite. Even in the 
small matter just referred to, the appropriation of his law busi- 
ness, the observant fates gave me my revenge. By a singular 
coincidence of events, the very firm against which he had 
brought action the day before were clients of Mr. Edgerton. 
That gentleman was taken with a serious illness at the ap' 
proach of the next court, and the business of their defence 
devolved upon his son and myself ; and finally, when it wai 
disposed of, which did not happen till near the close of that 
year, it so happened that I argued the case ; and was suc- 
cessful. 


DKftUT; 


49 


Mr. CliiFord was baffled, and you may judge the feeling with 
^hicli he now regarded me. He had long since ceased to jest 
with me and at my expense. He was now very respectful, and 
[ cculd see that his dislike grew daily in strict degree with his 
deference. But the deportment of Mi. Clifford — springing as 
It did from that devil, which each man is supposed to carry at 
times in his bosom, and of whose presence in mine at seasons I 
was far from unaware — gave me less annoyance than that of 
■aiother of his household. Julia, too, had put on an aspect 
which, if not that of coldness, was at least, that of a very 
marked reserve. I ascribed this to the influence of her parents 
— jierhaps, to her own sense of wliat was due to their obvious 
desires — to her own feeling of indifference — to any and every 
cause but the right one. 

There were other circumstances to alarm me, in connection 
with this maiden. She was, as I have said, singularly beauti 
ful ; and, as I thought, until now, singularly meek and consid- 
erate. Her charms, about which there could be no two opinion?, 
readily secured her numerous admirers, and when these were 
strengthened by the supposed fortune of which she was to be 
the heiress, the suitors were, some of them, almost as pressing, 
after the fashion of the world in which we lived, as those of 
Penelope. I now no longer secured her exclusive regard at 
the evening fireside or in our way to church. There were gal- 
lants on either hand — gay, dashing lads, with big whisker^, 
long locks, and smart ratans, upon whom madame, our lady- 
r->:ther, looked with far more complacency than upon me. The 
course of Julia, herself, was, however, unexceptionable. She 
was singularly cautious in her deportment, and, if reserved to me, 
the most jealous scrutiny -after due reflection — never enabled 
me to discover that she was more lavish of her regards to any 
other. But the discovery of her position led me to another 
discovery which the reader wdll wonder, as I did myself, that 
I had not made before. This was the momentous discovery 
that my heart was irretrievably lost to her — that I loved her 
with all the intensity of a first passion, which, like every other 
passion in my heart, was absorbing during its prevalence. I 
could name my feelings to myself only when I perceived that 
such feelings were entertained by others; — only when I fcanO 


oO CO^^FESS^ON, OR tfiE BUND HEART. 

that the prize, which I desired beyond all others, was likely 
be borne away by strangers, did I know how mncli it was des> 
rable to myself. 

The discovery of this affection instantly produced its natural 
effects as well upon my deportment as upon my feelings ; and 
that sleepless spirit of suspicion and doubt — that true creature 
and consequence of the habitual distrust which my treatment 
from boyhood had ins illed into my mind — at once rose to 
strength and authority within me, and swayed me even as the 
blasts of November sway the bald tops of the slender trees 
which the gusts have already denuded of all foliage. The 
change in Julia’s deportment, of which I have already spoken, 
increased the febrile fears and suspicions which filled my soul 
and overcame my judgment. She too — so I fancied — had 
learned to despise and dislike me, under the goading influences 
o'f her father’s malice and her mother’s silly prejudices. I 
jumped to the conclusion instantly, that I was bound to my 
self to assert my superiority, my pride and independence, in 
such a manner, as most effectually to satisfy all parties tha 
their hate or love was equally a matter of indifference. 

You may judge what my behavior was after this. For a 
time, at least, it was sufficiently unbecoming. The deportment of 
Julia grew more reserved than ever, and her looks more grave. 
There was a sadness evidently mingled with this gravity which, 
amid all the blindness of my heart, I could not help but see. 
She became sadder and thinner every day ; and there was a 
wo-begone listlessness about her looks and movements whi^B 
began to give me pain and apprehension, I discovered, too 
after a while, that some apprehensions had also crept into the 
minds of her parents in respect to her hsalth. Their looks 
were frequently addressed to her in evident anxiety. They 
restrained her exercises, watched the weather when she pro- 
posed to go abroad, strove in every way to keep her from 
fatigue and exposure ; and, altogether, exhibited a degree of 
solicitude which at length had the effect of arousing mine. 

Involuntarily, I approached her with more tenderness than 
my vexing spirit had recently permitted me to show' ; but I re- 
coiled from the effects of my own attentions. I was vexed to 
perceive that my approaches occasioned a start, a flutter — ^a 


DEBUT. H 

tbiEmking inward — as if my advance bad been obtrusive, and 
my attempts at familiarity offensive. 

I was then little schooled in the intiicacies of the female 
heart. I little conjectured the origin of that seemingly para- 
doxical movement of the mind, which, in the case of one, 
sensitive and exquisitely delicate, prompts to flight from the 
very pursuit which it would yet invite ; which dreads to be sus- 
pected of the secret which it yet most loves to cherish, and 
seeks to protect, by concealment, the feelings which it may not 
defend ; even as the bird hides the little fledglings of its care 
from the hunter, whom it dare not attack. 

Stupid, and worse than stupid, my blind heart saw nothing . 
of this, and perverted what it saw. I construed the conduct 
of Julia into matter of offence, to be taken in high dudgeon 
and resolutely resented ; and I drew myself up stiffly when she 
appeared, and by excess of ceremonious politeness only, avoided 
the reproach of brutality. Yet, even at such moments, I could 
see that there was a dewy reproach in her eyes, which should 
have humbled me, and made me penitent. But the efiects of 
fifteen years of injudicious management were not to be dis-. 
eipated in' a few days even by the Itburiel spells of love. My 
sense of independence and self-resource had been stimulated to 
a diseased excess, until, constantly on the qui vive, it became 
dogged and inflexible. It was a work of time to soften me 
and make me relent ; and the labor then was one of my own 
secret thoughts, and unbiased private decision. The attempt 
to persuade or reason me into a conviction was sure to be a 
failure. 

Months passed in this manner without effecting any serious 
change in Julia, or in bringing us a step nearer to one another. 
Meanwhile, the sphere of my observation and importance in- 
creased, as the circle of my acquaintance became extended. I 
was regarded as a rising young man, and one likely to be suc- 
cessful ultimately in my profession. The social privileges of 
my friends, the Edgertons, necessarily became mine ; and it 
goon occurred tliat I encountered my uncle and his family in 
circles in which it was somewhat a matter of pride with him to 
be permitted to move. This, as it increased my importance 
ip h.l^ sight, did pot diminish his pains. But he treated mo 


52 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


now with constant deference, though witn the same unvarying 
coldness. When in the presence of others, he warmed a little. 
I was then “ his nephew and he would affect to speak with 
great familiarity on the subject of my business, my interests, 
the last case in which I was engaged, and so forth — the object 
of which was to persuade third persons that our relations were 
precisely as they should be, and as people would naturally sup- 
pose them. 

At all these places and periods, when it was my lot to meet 
with Julia, she was most usually the belle of the night. A 
dozen attendants followed in her train, solicitous of all her 
smiles, and only studious how to afford her pleasure. I, only, 
stood aloof — I, who loved her with a. more intense fervor than 
all, simply because I had none, or few besides to love. The 
heart which has been evermore denied, will always burn with 
this intensity. Its passion, once enkindled, will be the ail-ab- 
sorhing flame. Devoted itself, it exacts the most religious 
devotion ; and, unless it receives it, recoils upon its own re- 
sources, and shrouds itself in gloom, simply to hide its sufferings 
from detection. 

I affected that indifference to the charms *f this maiden, 
which no one of human sensibilities could have felt. Opinions 
might have differed in respect to her beauty ; but there could 
be none on the score of her virtues and her amiability, and al- 
most as few on the possessions of her mind. Julia Clifford, 
though singularly unobtrusive in society, very soon convinced 
all around her that she had an excellent understanding, which 
study had improved, and grace had adorned by all the most, 
appropriate modes of cultivation. Her steps were always fol- 
lowed by a crowd — her seat invariably encircled by a group to 
itself. I looked on at a distance, wrapped up in the impene- 
trable folds of a pride, whose sleeves were momently plucked, 
as I watched, by the nervous fingers of jealousy and suspicion. 
Sometimes I caught a timid glance of her eye, addressed to th.? 
spot where I stood, full of inquiry, and, as I could not but be- 
lieve, of apprehension; — and yet, at such moments. I turned 
perversely from the spot, nor ouffered myee]f io steal another 
look at one, all of whose fxiumphs seemed male .at my 


DEBUT. 


63 


On one of these occasions we met — oiir eyes and hands, ac- 
cidentally ; and, though I, myself, could not help starting back 
with a coM chill at my heart, I yet fancied there was some- 
thing monstrous insulting in the evident recoil of her person 
from the contact with mine, at the same moment. I was about 
to turn hurriedly away with a slight bow of acknowledgment, 
Avhen the touching tenderness of her glance, so full of sweet- 
ness and sadness, made me shrink with shame from such a rude- 
ness. Besides, she "was so pale, so thin, and really looked so 
unwell, that my conscience, in spite of that blind heart whose 
perversity would still have kept me to my first intention, re- 
buked me, and drove me to my duty. I approached — I spoke 
to her — and my words, though few, under the better impulses 
of the moment, were gentle and solicitous, as they should have 
been. My tones, too, were softened: — wilfully as I still felt, 
I could not forbear the exercise of that better ministry of the 
affections which was disposed to make amends for previous mis- 
conduct. I do not know exactly what I said — I probably did 
nothing more than utter the ordinary phrases of social compli- 
ment ; — but everything was obliterated from my mind in an 
instant, by the startling directness of what was said by her. 
Looking at me with a degree of intentness by which, alone, 
she was, perhaps, able to preserve her seeming calmness, she 
replied by an inquiry as remote from what my observation 
called for as possible, yet how applicable to me and my conduct ! 

“ Why do you treat me thus, Edward ? Why do you neg- 
lect me as you do — as if 1 were a straricCer, or, at least, not 
a friend ? What have I done to merit this usage from one 
who ” 

She did not finish the sentence, but her rcpr'-achful eyes, full 
of a dewy suffusion that seemed very much like tears, appeared 
to conclude it thus — 

“ One who — used to love me !” 

So different was this speech from any that I looked for — oj 
different from what the usage of our conventional world woul i 
have seemed to justify — so strange for one so timid, so silent 
usually on the subject of l?er own griefs, as Julia Clifford — 
that I was absolutely confounded. Where had she got this cour- 
age ? By what strong feeling had it been stinuja'^^ed ? Had J 


'<>4 CONFESSION, Oil THE BL^^D llEAKT. 

been at that time as well acquainted with the sex as I have 
grown since, I must have seen that nothing hut a deep interest 
in my conduct and regard, could possibly have prompted the 
spirit of one so gentle and shrinking, to the utterance of so 
searching an appeal. And in what way could I answer it ? 
How could I excuse myself? What say, to justify that cold, 
rude indifference to a relative, and one who had ever been 
gentle and kind and true to me. I had really nothing to com- 
plain of. The vexing jealousies of my own suspicious heart 
had alone informed it to its perversion ; and there I stood — 
dumb, confused, stupid — speaking, when I did speak, some in- 
coherent, meaningless sentences, which could no more have been 
understood by her than they can now be remembered by me. 
I recovered myself, however, sufficiently soon to say, before we 
were separated by the movements of the crowd : — 

“ I will come to you to-morrow, Julia. Will you suffer mo 
to see you in th i morning, say at twelve ?” 

“ Yes, come ! ' was all her ansvrer ; and the next moment the 
harsh accents . F her ever-watchfol mother warned ns to ri)ik 
no more. 


DENIAL AND DEFEA'^ 


66 


CHAPTER Vi. 

DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 

My sleep that night was anything but satisfactory. I had 
feverish dreams, unquiet slumbers, and woke at morning with 
an excruciating headache. I was in no mood for an explana- 
tion such as my promise necessarily implied, but I prepared my 
toilet with particular care — spent two hours at my office in a 
vain endeavor to divert myself, by a resort to business, from the 
conflicting and annoying sensations which afflicted me, and then 
proceeded to the dwelling of my uncle. 

I Was fortunate in seeing Julia without the presence of her 
mother. That good lady had become too fashionable to suffer 
herself to be seen at so early an hour. Her vanity, in this re- 
spect, baffled her vigilance, for she had her own apprehensions 
on the score of my influence upon her daughter. Julia wns 
scarcely so composed in the morning as she had appeared on 
the preceding night. I was now fully conscious of a flutter in 
her manner, a flush upon her face, an ill-suppressed apprehen- 
sion in her eyes, which betokened strong emotions actively at 
work. But my own agitation did not suffer me to know the 
full e^itent of hers. For the first time, on her appeai'ance, did 
I ask myself the question — “For what did I seek this inter- 
view ?” What had I to say — what near? How explain my 
conduct — my coldness ? On what imaginary and unsubstantial 
premises base the neglect in my deportment, amounting to rude- 
ness, of which she had sufficient reason and a just right to coni- 
piain ? When I came to review my causes of vexation, how 
trivial did they seem. The reserve which had irritated me, .on 
her part, now that I analyzed its sources, seemed a very natural 
reserve, such as was only maidenly and becoming. I now rec- 
ollected that she was no longer a child — no longer the lively 


56 


CONFESSION, OB THE BLIND HEART. 


little fairy whom I could dandle on my knee and fling upon my 
shoulder, without a scruple or complaint. I stood like a trem- 
bling culprit in her presence. I was eloquent only through the 
force of a stricken conscience. 

“ Julia !” I exclaimed when we met, “ I have come to make 
atonement. I feel how rude I have been, hut that was only 
because I was very wretched.” 

“ Wretched, Edward !” she exclaimed with some surprise. 
“ What should make you wretched 

“ You — you have made me wretched.” 

“ Me !” Her surprise naturally increased 

“ Yes, you, dear Julia, and you only.” 

I took her hand in mine. Mine was burning — hers was 
colder than the icicles. Need I say more to those who com* 
prebend the mysteries of the youthful heart. Need I say that 
the tongue once loosed, and the declaration of the soul must 
follow in a rush from the lips. I told her how much I loved 
her; — how unhappy it made me to think that others might 
bear away the prize ; that, in this way, my rudeness arose from 
my wretchedness, and my wretchedness only from my love. I 
did not speak in vain. She confessed an equal feeling, and we 
were suffered a brief hour of unmitigated happiness together. 

Surely there is no joy like that which the heart feels in the 
first moment when it gives utterance to its own, and hears the 
avowed passion of the desired objecH-is^^a pure flame, the child 
of sentiment, just blushing with the hues of passion, just bud- 
ding with the breath and bloom of life. No sin has touched 
the sentiment;- — no gross smokes have risen to involve and ob- 
scure the flame ; the altar is tended by pure hands ; white 
spirits ; and there is no reptile beneath the fresh blossoming 
flowers which are laid thereon. The grosser passions sleep, 
like the fumes at the "shrine of Apollo, beneath the spell of that 
master passion in whose presence they can only maintain a sub- 
ordinate existence. I loved ; I had told my love ; — and I was 
loved in return. I trembled with the deep intoxication of that 
bewildering moment ; and how I found my way back to my 
ofEce — whom I saw on the way, or to whom I spoke, I know 
not. I loved ; — I was beloved. He only can conceive the 
delirium of this sweet knowledge who has passed a life like 


denial and defeat. 


57 


mine — lias felt tlie frowns and llic scoiii, and the contempt 

of those who should have nurtured him with smiles — whose 
soul, ardent and sensitive, has been made to recoil cheerlesslv 
back on itself — denied the sunshine of the affections, and al- 
most forbade to hope. Suddenly, vdien I believed myself most 
destitute, I had awakened to fortune — to the realization of 
desires which were beyond my fondest dreams. I, whom no 
affection hitherto had blessed, had, in a moment, acquired that 
which seemed to me to comprise all others, and for which all 
others might have been profitably thrown away. 

I fancied now that henceforth my sky was to be without a 
cloud. I did not — nor did Julia imagine for a moment that any 
opposition to our love could arise from her parents. What reason 
now could they have to oppose it ? There was no inequality in 
our social positions. My blood had taken its rise from the same 
fountains with her own. In the world’s estimation my rank was 
quite aa respectable as that of any in my uncle’s circle, and, for 
my condition, my resources, though small, were improving daily, 
and I had already attained such a place among my professional 
brethren, as to leave it no longer doubtful that it must con-tinue to 
improve. My inconle, with economy — such economy as two 
simple, single-minded creatures, like Julia and myself, were 
willing to employ — would already yield us a decent support. 
In short, the idea of my uncle’s opposition to the match never 
once entered my head. Yet he did oppose it. I was confound- 
ed with his blunt, and almost rugged<refusal. 

“ Why, sir, what are your objections'?” 

He answered with sufficient coolness. 

“ I am sorry to refuse you, Edward, but I have already formed 
other arrangements for my daughter. I have designed her for 
another.” 

“Indeed, sir — may I ask with whom*';” 

“ Young Roberts — his father and mycehf have had the matter 
for some time in deliberation. But do not speak of it, Ed w aid 
- - my confidence in you, alone, induces me to state this fact.” 

“ I am very much obliged to yoU; sir ; — but you do not sure 
ly mean to force ycung Roberts upon Julia, if she is unwul 
ling?” 

“ Ah, she will not be unwilling. She’s a dutiful child, who 

a* 


58 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

will readily recoguise the desires of her parents as the truest 
wisdom.” 

“ But, Mr. Clifford — you forget that Julia has already admit- 
ted to me a preference ” 

“ So you tell me, Edward, and it is with regret that I feel 
myself compelled to say that I wholly disapprove of your seek- 
ing my daughter’s consent, before you first thought jiroper to 
obtain mine. This seems to mo very much like an abuse of con- 
fidence.” 

“ Really, sir, you surprise me more than ever. Now that you 
force me to speak, let me say that, regarding myself as of blood 
scarcely inferior to that of my cousin, I can not see how the privi- 
lege of which I availed myself in proposing for her hand, can be 
construed into a breach of confidence. I trust, sir, that you 
have not contemplated your brother’s son in any degrading or 
unbecoming attitude.” 

“ No, no, surely not, Edward ; but mere equality of birth 
does not constitute a just claim, by itself, to the affections of a 
lady.” 

“ I trust the equality of birth, sir, is not impaired on my part 
by misconduct — by a want of industry, capacity — by inequal- 
ities in other respects — ” 

“ And talents !” * 

He finished the sentence with the ancient sneer. But I was 
now a man — a strong one, and, at this moment particularly a 
stern one. 

“ Stop, sir,” I retorted ; “ there must be an end to this, i 
Whether you accede to my application or not, sir, there is noth- ] 
ing to justify you in an attempt to goad and mortify my feelings. 

I have proffered to you a respectful application for the hand of 
of your daughter, and though I were poorer, and humbler, and 
less worthy in all respects than I am, I should still be entitled 
to respectful treatment. At another time, with my sensibilities 
less deeply interested than they are, I should probably submit, 
as I have already frequently submitted, to the unkind and ungen- ^ 
erous sarcasms in which you have permitted yourself to indulge. ' 
U my expense. But my regard for your daughter alone would ; 
prompt me to resent and repel them now. The object of my ' 
uHerview with you is quite too sacred — too oolemnly invested 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 


59 


— to suffer me to stand silently under tlie scornful usage even 
of her father.” 

All this may have been deserved by Mr. Clifford, but it was 
scarcely discreet in me. It gave him the opportunity which, 
I do not doubt, he desired — the occasion which he had in 
view. It afforded him an excuse for anger, for a regular out- 
break’ between us, which, in some sort, yielded him that justi- 
fication for his refusal, without which he would have found it a 
very difficult matter to account for or excuse. We parted in 
mutual anger, the effect of which was to close his doors 
against me, and exclude me from all opportunities of interview 
with Julia, unless by stealth. Even then, these opportunities 
were secured by my artifice, without her privity. As dutiful 
as fond, she urged me against them ; and, resolute to “ honor 
her father and mother” in obedience to those holy laws Avith- 
out a compliance with which there is little hope and no happi- 
ness, she informed me with many tears that she Avas noAv for- 
bidden to see me, and Avould therefore avoid every premedi- 
tated arrangement for our meeting. I did not do justice to her 
character, but reproached her Avith coldness — Avith a want of 
affection, sensibility, and feeling. 

“Do not say so, Edward — do not — do not ! I cold — I in- 
sensible — I Avanting in affection for you ! How, hoAV can you 
think so 1” And she threw herself on my bosom and sobbed 
until I began to fancy that convulsions Avould folloAv. 

We separated, finally, Avith assurances of mutual fidelity — 
assurances which, I knew, from the exclusiveness of all my 
feelings, my concentrative singleness of character, and entire 
dependence upon the beloved object of those affections Avhich 
were noAv the sole solace of my heart, would not be difficult for 
me -to keep. But I doubted her strength — her resolution — 
against the pressing solicitations of parents whom she had never 
been accustomed to withstand. But she quieted me Avith that 
singular earnestness of look and manner which had once before 
impressed me previous to our mutual explanation. Like vulgar 
thinkers generally, I was apt to confound Aveakness of frame 
and delicacy of organization Avith a Avant of courage and moral 
I'esources of strength and consolation. 

“ Fear nothing for my truth, Edward. Though, in obedience 


oO 


CONFESSION^ OR fHE BLIND HEART. 


to my parents, I sliall not marry against their will, be sure I 
shall never marry against my own.” 

“Ah, Julia, you think so, but — ” 

“ I know so, Edward. Believe nothing that you hear against 
me or of me, which is unfavorable to my fidelity, until you hear 
it from my own lips.” 

“But you will meet me again — soon?” 

“No, no, do not ask it, Edward. We must aot meet in this 
manner. It is not right. It is criminal.” 

I had soon another proof of the decisive manner in which my 
uncle seemed disposed to carry on the war between us. Er- 
ring, like the greater number of our young men, in their ambi- 
tious desire to enter public life prematurely, I was easily per- 
suaded to become a candidate for the general assembly. I was 
now just twenty -five — at a time when young men are not yet 
released from the bias of early associations, and the unavoida- 
ble influence of guides, who are generally blind guides. Until 
thirty, there are few men who think independently ; and, until 
this habit is acquired — which, in too many cases, never is ac- 
quired — -the individual is sadly out of place in the halls of 
legislation. It is this premature disposition to enter into pub- 
lic life, which is the sole origin of the numberless mistakes and 
miserable inconsistencies into which our statesmen fall ; which 
cling to their progress for ever after, preventing their perform- 
ances, and baffling them in all their hopes to secure the confi- 
dence of the people. They are broken-down political hacks in 
the prime of life, and just at the time Avhen they should be first 
entering upon the duties of the public man. Seduced, like the 
rest, as well by my own vanity as the suggestions of favoring 
friends, I permitted my name to be announced, and engaged 
actively in the canvass. Perhaps the feverish state of my mind, 
in consequence of my relations with Julia Clifford and her pa- 
rents, made me more willing to adopt a measure, about which, 
at any other time, I should have been singularly slow and cau- 
tious. As a man of proud, reserved, and suspicious temper, I 
had little or no confidence in my own strength with the people ; 
and defeat would be more mortifying than success grateful to a 
person of my pride. I fancied, however, that popular life would 
somewhat subdue the consuming passions which were rioting 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 


61 


within my bosom ; and I threw myself into the thick of thd 
struggle with all the ardor of a sanguine temperament. 

To my surprise an‘d increased vexation^ I found my worthy 
uncle striving in every possible way, without actually declaring 
his purpose, in opposing my efforts and prosjjects. It is true 
he did not utter my name ; but he had formed a complete ticket, 
in which my name was not; and he was toiling with all the 
industry of a thoroughgoing partisan in promoting its success. 
The cup which he had commended to my lips was overrunning 
with the gall of bitterness. Hostility to me seemed really to 
have been a sort of monomania with him from the first. How 
else was this v anton procedure tQ be accounted for ? how, even 
with this belief, could it be excused 1 His conduct was cer- 
tainly one of those mysteries of idiosyncracy upon which the 
moral philosopher may speculate to doomsday without being a 
jot the wiser.. 

If his desire was to baffle m§, he was successful. I was de- 
feated, after a close struggle, by a meagre majority of seven 
votes in some seventeen hundred ; and the night after the elec- 
tion was declared, he gave a ball in honor of the successful 
candidates, in which his house was filled to overflowing. I 
passed the dwelling about midnight. Music rang from the illu- 
minated parlor. The merry dance proceeded. All was life, 
gayety, and rich profusion. And Julia ! even then she might 
have been whirling in the capricious movements of the dance 
with my happy rival — she as happy — unconscious of him who 
glided like some angry spectre beneath her windows, and al- 
most within hearing of her thoughtless voice. 

Such were my gloomy thoughts — such the dark and dismal 
subjects of my lonely meditations. I did the poor girl wrong. 
That night she neither sung nor danced ; and when I saw her 
again, I was shocked at the visible alteration for the worse 
which her appearance exhibited She was now grown thin, 
almost to meagreness ; her cheeks were very wan, her lips 
whitened, and her beauty greatly faded in consequence of her 
suffering health. 

Yet, will it be believed that, in that interview, though such 
was her obvious condition, my perverse spirit found the lan- 
guage of complaint and suspicion more easy than that of devo 


02 


CONFESSION, on Tfi^: BLIND HEART. 


tion and tenderness. I know that it would be easy, and feel 
that it would be natural, to account for and to excuse this bru- 
tality, by a reference to those provocations which I had re- 
ceived from her father. A warm temper, ardent and glowing, 
it is very safe to imagine, must reasonably become soured and 
perverse by bad treatment and continual injury. But this for 
me was no excuse. Julia was a victim also of the same treat- 
ment, and in far greater degi’ee than myself, as she was far less 
able to endure it. Mine, however, was the perverseness of im- 
petuous blood — unrestrained, unchecked — having a fearful 
will, an impetuous energy, and, gradually, with success and 
power, swelling to the assertion of its OAvn unqualified dominion 
— the despotism of the blind heart. 

Julia bore my reproaches until I was ashamed of them. Her 
submission stung me, and I loved then too ardently not to ar- 
rive in time at justice, and to make atonement. Would 1 
had made it sooner ! When I had finished all my reproaches 
and complainings, she answered all by telling me that the affair 
Avith young Roberts had been just closed, and she hoped finally, 
by her unqualified rejection of his suit, even though backed by 
all her father’s solicitations, complaints, nay, threats and anger. 
How ungenerous and unmanly, after this statement had been 
made, appeared all the bitter eludings in which I had indulged ! 
I need not say Avhat efforts I made to atone for my precipita- 
tion and injustice ; and how easily I found forgiveness from one 
Avho knew not hoAV to harbor unkindness — and if she even had 
the feeling in her bosom, entertained it as one entertains his 
deadliest foe, and expelled it as soon as its real character was 
discovered 


TEMPTATION, 


S3 


CHAPTER VII. 

TEMPTATION. 

ThOs stood the affair between my fair cousin and myself— 
a condition of things seriously and equally affecting her health 
and my temper — when an explosion took place, of a naturo 
calculated to humble my uncle and myself, if not in equal de- 
gree, or to the same attitude, at least to a most mortifying ex- 
tent in both cases. I have not stated before — indeed, it was 
not until the affair which I am now about to relate had actually 
exploded, that I was made acquainted with any of the facts 
which produced it — that, prior to my father’s death, there had 
been some large business connections between himself and my 
uncle. In those days secret connections in business, however 
dangerous they might be in social, and more than equivocal in 
moral respects, were considered among the legitimate practices 
of tradesmen. What was the particular sort of relations exist- 
ing between my father and uncle, I am not now prcj*ared to 
state, nor is it absolutely necessary to my narrative. It ia 
enough for me to say that an exposure of them took place, in 
part, in consequence of some discoveries made by my fatherV' 
unsatisfied creditors, by which the obscure transactions of thirt}- 
years were brought to light, or required to be brought to light; 
and in the development of which, the fair business fame of my 
uncle was likely to be involved in a very serious degree — not 
to speak of the inevitable effects upon his resources of a discov 
ery and proof of fraudulent concealment. The reputation of 
my father must have suffered seriously, had it not been gener- 
ally known that he left nothing — a fact beyond dispute from 
the history of my own career, in which neither goods nor chat- 
tels, lands nor money, were suffered to enure to my advantage. 


64 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


The business was brought to me. The merchant who hrougnt 
it, and who had been busy for some years in tracing out the 
testimony, so far as it could be procured, gave me to understand 
that he had determined to place it in my hands for two reasons : 
firstly, to enable me to release the memory of my fatrher from 
the imputation — under any circumstances discreditable — of 
bankruptcy, by compelling my uncle to disgorge the sums 
which he had appropriated, and which, as was alleged, would 
satisfy all my father’s creditors ; and, secondly, to give me an 
opportunity of revenging my own wrongs upon one, of whose 
course of conduct toward me the populace had already se«ij 
enough, during the last election, to have a tolerably correct 
idea. 

I examined the papers, thanked my client for his friendly 
intentions, but declined taking charge of the case for two other 
reasons. My relations to the dead and to the living were either 
of them sufficient reasons for this determination. I communi- 
cated the grounds of action, in a respectful letter, to my uncle, 
and soon discovered, by the alarm which he displayed in con- 
sequence, that the cause of the complaint was in all probability 
good. The case belonged to the equity jurisdiction, and the 
relat or soon filed his bill. 

My uncle’s tribulation may be conjectured from the fact that 
he called upon me, and seemed anxious enough to bury the 
hatchet. He wished me to take part in the proceedings — in 
listed, somewhat earnestly, and strove very hard to impress me 
’^'ith the conviction that my father’s memory demanded that I 
should devote myself to the task of meeting and confounding 
the creditor who thus, as it were, had set to work to rake up 
’'.be ashes of the dead ; but I answered all this very briefly and 
very dryly 

“ If my father has participated in this fraud, he has reaped 
none of its pleasant fruits. He lived poor, and died poor. The 
public know that ; and it will be difficult to persuade them, with 
a due knowledge of these facts, that lie deliberately perpetrated 
such unprofitable villany. Besides, sir, you do not seem to re- 
member that, if the claim of Banks, Tressell, & Sons, is good, 
it relieves my fntlier\s melrioTy of the only imputation that now 
lies ii.gkinsl it— that ef being a bankrupt,” 


TEMPTATION. 65 

“Ay !” he cried hoarsely, “but it makes me one — me, youij 
uncle.” 

“And what reason, sir, have I to remember or to heed this 
relationship ?” I demanded sternly, with a glance beneath whicii 
he quailed. 

“ True, true, Edward, your reproach is a just one. I have 
not been the friend I should have been ; but — let us be friends, 
now, and hereafter — Ave must be friends. Mrs. Clifford is very 
anxious that it should be so — and — and — Edward,” solemiiiy, 
“ you must help me out of this business. You must, by Hea /' 
en, you must — if you Avould not have me blow my brains out 1” 

The man was giving true utterance to his misery — the fraii 
of those pregnant fears Avhich filled his mind. 

“ I would do for you, sii, whatever is proper for me to d ,but 
can not m.eddle in this unless you are prepared to make restitu- 
tion, which I should judge to be your best course.” 

“ How can you advise me to beggar my child ] This cLiioi, 
if recognised, Avill sweep everything. The interest alone is a 
fortune. I can not think of allowing it. I would rather die!” 

“ This is mere madness, Mr. Clifford ; your death would noi 
lessen the difficulty. Hear me, sir, and face the matter man- 
fully. You must do justice. If what I understand be true, 
you have most unfortunately suffered yourself to be blinded to 
the dishonor of the act which you have comm'itted ; you have 
appropriated wealth which did not belong to you, and, in thus 
doing, you have subjected the memory of my father to the re- 
proach of injustice which he did not deserve. I will not add 
the reproach Avliich I might with justice add, that, in thus 
wronging the father’s memory, and making it cover your own 
improper gains, you have suffered his son to want those neces- 
saries of education and sustenance, which — ” 

“ Say no more, Edward, and it shall all be amended. Listen 
to me now; but stay — close that door for a moment — -there! 
— Now, look you.” 

And, having taken these precautionary steps, the infatuated 
man proceeded to admit the dishonest practices of which he 
had been guilty. His object in making the confession, how- 
ever Was not that he might make reparation. Ear from it. It 
was rathfei’ to save from the clutch of his creditors, from the 


GO CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. ^ 

grasp of justice, his iil-gotten possessions. I have no patience 
ill revealing the schemes by which this was to be effected ; but, j 
as a preliminary, I was to be made the proprietor of one half j 
of the sum in question, and the possessor of his daughter’s hand ; j 
in return for which I was simply to share with him in the per- j 
formance of certain secret acts, which, without rendering his j 
virtue any more conspicuous, would have most effectually eradi- j 
cated all of mine. ' j 

I have listened to you, Mr. Clifford, and with great diffi- 1 
culty. I now distinctly decline your proposals. Not even the • 
bribe, so precious in my sight, as that which you have tendered \ 
in the person of your daughter, has power to tempt me into i 
hesitation. I will have nothing to do with you in this matter. ^ 
Restore the property to your creditors.” j 

“But, Edward, you have not heard ;• -your share alone will ^ 
be twenty odd thousand dollars, without naming the interest !” ; 

Mr. Clifford, I am sorry for you Doubly sorry that you i 
persist in seeing this thing in an improper light. Even were I ; 
disposed to second your designs, it is scarcely possible, sir, that 
you could be extricated. The discovery of those papers, and 
tlie extreme probability that Hansford, the partner of the Eng- : 
lish firm of Davis, Pierce, & Hansford, is surviving, and can be 
found, makes the probabilities strongly against you. My ad- 
vice to you, is, that you make a merit of necessity ; — that you 
endeavor to effect a compromise before the affair has gone too ' 
far. The creditors will make some concessions sooner than 
trust the uncertainties of a legal investigation, and whether you ' 
lose or gain, a legal investigation is what you should particu- 
larly desire to avoid. If you will adopt this counsel, I will act . 
for you with Banks & Tressel : and if you will give me carte 
blanche, I think I can persuade them to a private arrangement 
by which they will receive the principal in liquidation of all de- 
mands. This may be considered a very fair basis for an ar- 
tangement, since the results of the specidatioii could only ac- 
crue from the business capacities of the speculator, and did not 
belong to a fund which the proprietor had resolved not to ap- 
propriate, and which must therefore, have been entirely un- ■ 
productive. I do not promise you that they will accept, but it 
is not improbable. They aie men of business they need, at j 


TEMPTATION. 


or 


this moment, particularly, an active capital ; and lia\ e had too 
much knowledge of the doubts and decays attending a pro- 
longed suit in equity, not to listen to a proposition which yields 
them the entire prfncipal of their claim.” 

I need not repeat the arguments and entreaties hy which I 
succeeded in persuading my uncle to accede to the only ar- 
rangement whicli could possibly have rescued him fri^rn the’ 
public exposure which was impending ; but he did consent, and, 
armed with his credentials, I proceeded to the office of Banks 
& Tressell, without loss of time. 

Though resolved, if I could effect the matter, that my undo 
should liquidate their claim to the uttermost farthing which they 
I required, it was my duty to make the best bargain which I 
i could, in reference to his unfortunate family. Accordingly, 
without suffering them to know that I had carte blanche, I simply 
communicated to them my wish to have the matter arranged 
i without public investigation — that I was persuaded from a 
! hasty review which I had given to the case, that there were 
good grounds for action; — but, at the same time, I dwelt upon 
the casualties of such a course — the possibility that the chief 
living witness — if he were living — might not be found, or 
might not survive long enough — as he was reputed to be very 
j old — for the purposes of examination before the commission ; 

• — the long delays which belonged to a litigated suit, in which 
!i the details of a mixed foreign and domestic bu^ness of so many 
; years was to be raked up, reviewed and explained ; and the 
I further chances, in the event of final success, of the property 
^ of the debtor being so covered, concealed, or made away with, 
as to baffle at last all the industry and labors of the creditor. 

The merchants were men of good sense, and estimated the 
proverb — “a bird in hand is worth two in the bush” — at its 
true value. It did not require much argument to persuade 
them to receive a sum of over forty thousand dollars, and give a 
full discharge to the defendant ; and I flattered myself that the 
matter was all satisfactorily arranged, and had just taken a seat 
at my table to write to Mr. Clifford to this effect, when, to my 
horror, I receive a note from that gentleman, informing me of 
his resolve to join issue with the claimants, and “ maintain his 
rights {?) to the last moment.” He thanked me, in very cold^ 


68 


CONFESSION, Oil THE BLIND HEART. 


consequential style, for my friendly efforts”— tlie w jrds itali- 
cised, as I have now written it; — but concluded with informing 
me that he had taken the opinion of older counsel, which, though 
it might be l^ss correct than mine, was, perhaps, more full of 
promise for his interests. 

This note justified me in calling upon the unfortunate gentle- 
man, It is true I had not committed him to Banks & Tressell 
— ^thc suggestions which I had made for the arrangement were 
all proposed as a something which I might be able to bring 
about in a future conference with him — but I was too anxious 
to save him from his lamentable folly — from that miserable 
love of money* which, overreaching itself in its blindness, as 
does every passion — was not only about to deliver him to shame 
but to destitution also. 

I found him in Mrs. Clifford’s presence. That simple and 
silly woman had evidently been made privy to the whole trans- 
action, so far as my arguments had been connected with it; — 
for all tile truth is not often to be got out of the man who means 
or has perpetrated a dishonesty. She had been alarmed at the 
immense loss of money, and consequently of importance, with 
which the family was tlireatened ; and without looking into', or 
being able to comprehend the facts as they stood, she had taken 
t^round against any measure which should involve such a sacri- 
fice. Her influence over the weak man beside her, was never 
so clear to me as now ; and in learning to despise his character 
more than jver, I discovered, at the same time, the true source 
of many of his errors and much of his misconduct. She did 
not often suffer him to reply for himself — yielded me the ul- 
timatum from her own lips ; and condescended to assure me 
that she could only ascribe the advice which I had given to her 
husband, to the hostile disposition which I had always enter- 
tained for herself .and family. That I was “ a wolf in sheep’s 
nothing, she had long since been able to see, though all others 
uihappily seemed blind.” 

Here she scowled at her husband, who contented himself with 
valking to and fro, playing with his coatskirts, and feeling, no 
doubt, a portion of tlie shame which his miserable bondage to 
tliis silly woman necessarily incurred. 

' Mr. Clifibrd has got a lawyer who can do for him what it 


TEMPTATION. 


69 


seems you can not,” was lier additional observation. “He 
promises to get him to dry land, and save bim without so much 
as wetting his shoes, though his own blood relations, who are 
thought so smart, can not, it appears, do anything.” 

Of course I could have nothing to say to the worthy lady, 
but my expostulations were freely urged to Mr. OlifiPord. 

“ 1 oil, at least,” said I, “ should know the risks which you 
incur by this obstinacy. Mrs. Clifford can not be expected to 
know ; and I now warn you, sir, that the case of Banks & 
Tressell is a very strong one, very well arranged, and so admi- 
rably hung together, in its several links of testimony, that, 
even the absence of old Hansford (the chief witness), should his 
answers never be obtained, would scarcely impair the integrity 
of the evidence. In a purely moral point of view, nothing can 
be more complete than it is now.” 

“ Well, and who would it convict, Mr. Edward Clifford?” ex- 
claimed the inveterate lady, anticipating her husband’s answer 
with accustomed interference ; “ who Avould it convict, if not 
your own father ? It was as much his business as my hus- 
band’s ; and if there’s any shame, I’m sure his memory and his 
son will have to bear their share of it ; and this makes it so 
much more wonderful to me that you should take sides against 
Mr. Clifford, instead of standing up in his defence.” 

“ I would save him, madam, if you and he would let me,” I ex- 
claimed with some indignation. “ Your reference to my father’s 
share in this transaction does not affect me, as it is very evident 
that you are not altogether acquainted with the true part which 
he had in it. He had all the risk, all the loss, all the blame — 
and your husband all the profit, all the importance. He lived 
poor, and died so ; without a knowledge of those profitable re- 
sults to his brother of which the latter has made his own avails 
by leaving my father’s memory to aspersion which he did not 
deserve, and his son to destitution and reproach which he 
merited as little. My father’s memory is liable to no reproach 
when every creditor knows that he died in a state of poverty, 
in which his only son has ever lived. Neither he nor I ever 
shared any of the pleasant fruits, for which we are yet to be 
made accountable.” 

“And whose fault was it that you didn’t get your share. 


70 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I’m sure Sfr. Clifford made you as handsome an offer yesterday 
as any man could desire. Didn’t he offer you half? But I 
suppose nothing short of the whole would satisfy so ambitious 
a person.” 

“Neither the half nor the whole will serve me, madam, in 
:8uch a business. My respect for your husband and his family 
would, of itself, have been sufficient to prevent my acceptance 
ef his offer.” 

“But there was Julia, too, Edward!” said Mr. Clifford, ap- 
proaching me with a most insinuating smile. 

“ It is not yet too late,” said Mrs. Clifford, unbending a little. 
“ Take the offer of Mr. Clifford, Edward, and be one of us ; and 
then this ugly business ” 

“ Yes, my dear Edward, even now, though I have spoken 
with young Perkins about the affair, and he tells me there’s 
nothing so much to be afraid of, yet, for the look of the thing, 
I’d rather that you should be seen acting in the business. As 
it’s so -well known that your father had nothing, and you nolli- 
ing, it’ll then be easy for the people to believe that nothing was 
the gain of any of us ; and — and ” 

“Young Perkins may think and say what he pleases, and 
you are yourself capable of judging how much respect you 
may pay to his opinion. Mine, however, remains unchanged. 
You will have to pay this money — nay, this necessity will not 
come alone. The development of all the particulars connected 
with the transaction will disgrace you for ever, and drive you 
from the community. Even were I to take part with you, I do 
not see that it would change the aspect of affairs. So far from 
your sharing with me the reputation of being profitless in the 
affair, the public would more naturally suspect that I had shared 
with you — now, if not before — and the whole amount involved 
would not seduce me to incur this imputation.” 

“ But my daughter — Julia ” 

“ Do not speak of her in this connection, I implore you, Mr, 
Clifford. Let her name remain pure, uncontaminated by any 
considerations, whether of mere gain or of the fraud which the 
gain is supposed to involve. Freely would I give the sum in 
question, were it mine, and all the wealth besides that I ever 
expect to acquire, to make Julia Clifford my wife ; — but I can 


TEMPTATION. 


T1 


not suffer myself, in sucli a case as tins, to accept her as a bribe, 
and to sanction crime. Nay, I am sure that she too would be 
the first to object.” 

“And so you really refuse? Well, the world’s coming to a 
pretty pass. But I told Mr. Clifford, months ago, that you had 
quite forgot yourself, ever since you had grown so great with 
the Edgertons, and the Blakes, and Fortescues, and all them 
high-headed people. But I’m sure, Mr. Edward Clifford, my 
daughter needn’t go a-begging to any man ; and as for this busi- 
ness, whatever you may say against young Perkins, I’ll take 
his opinion of the law against that of any other young lawyer 
in the country. He’s as good as the best, I’m thinking.” 

“ Your opinion is your own, Mrs. Clifford, but I beg to set 
you right on the subject of mine. I did not say anything 
against Mr. Perkins.” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ; I’m sure you did. You said he 
was nothing of a lawyer, and something more.” 

Was there ever a more perverse and evil and silly woman ! 
I contented myself with assuring her that she was mistaken 
and had very much misunderstood me — took pains to repeat 
what I had really said, and then cut short an interview that had 
been painful and humbling to me on many groundst I left the 
happy pair thc-a-the^ in their princely parlor together, little 
fancying that there was another ’ argument which had been 
prepared to overthrow my feeble virtue. But all this had been 
arranged by the small cunning of this really witless couple. I 
was left to find my way down stairs as I might ; and just when 
I was about to leave the dwelling — vexed to the heart at the 
desperate stolidity of the miserable man, whom avarice and 
weakness were about to expose to a loss which might be averted 
in part, and an exposure to infamy which might wholly be 
avoided — I was encountered _by the attenuated form and wan 
couDcenance of his suffering but still lovely daughter. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LOVE FINDS NO SMOOTH W^ATER IN THE SEA OF LAW 

“Julia!” I exclaimed, with a start which betrayed, I am 
sure, quite as much surprise as pleasure. My mood was 
singularly inflexible. My character was not easily shaken, 
and, once wrought upon by any leading influence, my mind 
preserved the tone which it acquired beneath it, long after the 
cause of provocation had been withdrawn. This earnestness of 
clt£iracter — amounting to intensity — gave me an habitual stern- 
ness of look and expression, and I found it hard to- acquire, of 
a sudden, that command of muscle which would permit me to 
mould the stubborn lineaments, at pleasure, to suit the moment. 
Not even where my heart was most deeply interested — thus 
aroused — could I look the feelings of the lover, which, never- 
theless, were most truly the predominant ones within my bosom. 

“Julia,” I exclaimed, “ I did not think to see you.” 

“ Ah, Edward, did you wish it ?” she replied in very mourn- 
ful accents, gently reproachful, as she suffered me to take her 
hand in mine, and . lead her back to the parlor in the basement 
story. I seated her upon the sofa, and took a place at her 
side. 

“ Why should I not wish to see you, Julia ? What should 
lead you to fancy now that I could wish otherwise ?” 

“ Alas I” she replied, “ I know not what to think — I scarcely 
know what I say. I am very miserable. What is this they 
tell me ? Can it be true, Edward, that you are acting against 
iny father — that you are trying to bring him to shame and 
poverty ?” 

I released her hand. I fixed my eyes keenly upon hers. 

“Julia, you have your instructions what to say. You are 
sent here for this. They have set you iii tvaiting to meet ine 


LOVE AND LAW. 73 

here, and speak things which you do not understand, and assert 
things which I know you can not believe.” 

“ Edward, I believe you she exclaimed with emphasis, but 
with downcast eyes ; “ but it does not matter whether I was 
sent here, or sought you of my own free will. They Hell me 
other things — there is more — but I have not the heart to say 
it, and it needs not much.” 

“ If you believe me, Julia, it certainly does not need that 
you should repeat to me what is said of me by enemies, equally 
unjust to me, and hostile to themselves. Yet I can readily con- 
jecture some things which they have told you. Did they not 
tell you that your hand had been proffered me, and that I had 
refused it 1” 

She hung her head in silence. 

“You do not answer.” 

‘ Spare me ; ask me not.” 

“Nay, tell me, Julia, that I may see how far you hold me 
worthy of your love, your confidence. Speak to me — have 
they not told you some such story ?” 

“ Something of this ; but I ^did not heed it, Edward.” 

“Julia — nay! — did you not?” 

“ And if I did, Edward — ” 

“ It surely was not to believe it ?” 

“No! no! no! I had no fears of you — have none, dear 
Edward ! I knew that it was not, could not be true.” 

“Julia, it was true !” 

“Ah!” 

“ True, indeed ! There was more truth in that than in any 
other part of the story. Nay, more — had they told you all the 
truth, dearest Julia, that part, strange as it may appear, would 
have given you less pain than pleasure.” 

“ How ! Can it be so ?” 

Your hand was proffered me by your father, and I refused 
it. Nay, look not from me, dearest — fear not for my affection 
— fear nothing. I should have no fear that you could suppose 
me false to you, though the whole world should come and tell 
you so. True love is always secured by a just confidence in 
the beloved object ; and, without this confidence, the whole life 
is a series of long doubts, struggles, griefs, and apprehensions. 


74 


CONFESSION, OR IHE BLIND HEART. 


wliicli break down the strength, and lay the spirit in the dust. 
I will now tell you, in few words, what is the relation in which 
I stand to your father and his family. He, many years ago, 
committed an error in business, which the laws distinguish by 
a harshei* name. By this error he became rich. Until recent- 
ly, the proofs of this error were unknown. They have lately 
been discovered by certain claimants, who are demanding repa- 
ration. In the difficulty of yoUr father, he came to me. I ex- 
amined the business, and have given it as my opinion that he 
should stifle the legal process by endeavoring to make a private 
arrangement with the creditors.” 

“ Could he do this 

“ He could. The creditors were willing, and at first he con- 
sented that I should arrange it with them. He now rejects the 
arrangement.” 

“ But why ?” 

•‘l-»ecause it involvss the burrender of the entire amount of 
property which they claim — a sum of forty thousand dollars.” 

“But, dear Edward, is it due? — does my father owe this 
money? If he does, surely he can not refuse. Perhaps he 
thinks that he owes nothing.” 

“Nay, Julia, unhappily he knows it, and the offer of your 
hand, and half of the sum mentioned, was made to me, on the 
express condition that I should exert my influence as a man, 
and my ingenuity as a lawyer, in baffling the creditors and sti- 
fling the claim.” 

The poor girl was silent and hung her head, her eyes fixed 
upon the carpet, and the big tears slowly gathering, dropping 
from them, on© by one. Meanwhile, I explained, as tenderly 
as X could, the evil consequences which threatened Mr. Clifford 
in consequence of his contumacy. 

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “it is not his fault. He would be 
wiking — I heard him say as much last night — but mother — 
tshe will not consent. She refused positively the moment father 
said it would be necessary to sell out, and move to a cheaper 
House Oh, Edward, is there no way that you can save us? 
Save my father from shame, though he gives up all the money 

“ Would I not do this, J ulia ? Nay, were I owner of the neces- 
sary amount myself, believe me, it should not be withheld.” 


LOVE AND LAW. 


“ I do believe you, Edward ; but” — and here ber voice funk 
to a whisper — “you must try again, try again and again — for 
I think that father knows the danger, though mother does not; 
and I think — I hope — he will be firm enough, when you press 
him, and warn him of the danger, to do as you wish him.” 

“I am afraid not, Julia. Your mother — ” 

“Do not fear; hope — hope all, dear Edward; for, to confess 
to you, I know that they are anxious to have your support — 
they said as much. Nay, why should I hide anything from 
you? They sent me here to see — to speak with you, and — ” 
“To see what your charms could do to persuade -me to be a 
villain. Julia! Julia! did you think to do this — to have me 
be the thing which they would make me ?” 

“No! no! — Heaven forbid, dear Edward, that you should 
fancy that any such desire had a place, even for a moment, in 
my mind. No! I knew not that the case involved any but. 
mere money considerations. I knew not that — ” 

“ Enough ! Say no more, Julia ! I do not think that you 
would counsel me to my own shame.” 

“ No ! no ! You do me only justice. But, Edward, you will 
StOve my father ! You will try — you will see him again — ” 

“ What ! to suffer again the open scorn, the declared doubts 
-of my friendship and integrity, which is the constant language 
of your mother ? Can it be that you would desire that I should 
do this — nay, seek it?” 

“Eor my poor father’s sake !” she cried, gaspingly. 

But I shook my head sternly. 

“ For mine, then — for mine ! for mine !” 

She threw herself into my arms, and clung to me until I 
promised all that she required. And as I promised her, so I 
strove with her father. I used every argument, resorted to ev- 
ery mode of persuasion, but all was of no avail. Mr. Clifford 
was under the rigid, the iron government of his fate ! His 
wife was one of those miserably silly women — born, according 


76 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sel or reason which suggests the possibility of its loss. From 
the very moment when Mr. Clifford spoke of selling out house, 
liorses, and carriage, as the inevitable result which must follow 
his adoption of my recommendation, she declared herself against 
it at all hazards, particularly when her husband assured her that 
“ the glorious uncertainties of the law” afforded a possibility of 
his escape with less loss. The loss of money was, with her, the 
item of most consideration ; her mind was totally insensible to 
that of reputation. She was willing to make this compromise 
with me, as a sort of alternative, for, in that case, there would 
be no diminution of attendance and expense — no loss of rank 
; and equipage. We should all live together — how harmoni- 
ously, one may imagine — but the grandeur and the state would 
still be intact and unimpaired. Even for this, however, she 
was not prepared, when she discovered that there was no cer- 
tainty that my alliance would bring immunity to her husband. 
How this notion got even partially into his head, I know not ; 
unless in consequence of a growing imbecility of intellect, which 
in a short time after betrayed itself more strikingly. But of 
this in its own place. 

My attempts to convince my unfortunate uncle were all ren- 
dered unavailing, and shown to be so to Julia herself in a very 
short time afterward. The insolence of Mrs. Clifford, when I 
did seek an interview with her husband, was so offensive and 
unqualified, that Julia herself, with a degree of indignation 
which she could not entirely suppress, begged me to quit the 
house, and relieve myself from such undeserved insult and 
abuse. I did so, but with no unfriendly wishes for the wretch- 
ed woman who presided over its destinies, and the no less 
v/retched husband whom she helped to make so ; and my place 
as consulting friend and counsellor was soon supplied by Mr. 
Perkins — one of those young barristers, to be found in every 
community, who regard the “ penny fee” as the smc q^ia non, 
and obey implicitly the injunction of the scoundrel in the play 
“Make money — honestly if you can, but — make money!” 
He was one of those creatures who set people at loggerheads, 
goad foolish and petulant clients into lawsuits, stir up commo- 
tions in little sets, and invariably comfort the suit-bringer with 
the most satisfactory assurances of success. It was the qoufi* 


LOVE AND LAW. 


77 


Heiit assurances of this person which had determined Mr. Clif- 
ford — his wife rather — to resist to the last the suit in question. 
Through the sheer force of impudence, this man had obtained a 
tolerable share of practice. His clients, as may be supposed, 
lay chiefly among such persons as, having no power or standard 
for judging, necessarily look upon him who is most bold and 
pushing as the most able and trustworthy. The bullies of the 
law — and, unhappily , tiie profession i.> as quite too many — are 
very commanding persons among the multitude. Mr. Clifibrd 
knew this fellow’s mental reputation very well, and was not 
deceived by the confidence of his assurances; nay, to the last, 
he showed a hankering desire to give me the entire control of 
the subject ; but the hostility of Mrs. ClifiPord overruled his more 
pruicnt if not more honorable purposes ; and, as he was com- 
pelled to seek a lawyer, the questionable moral standing of 
Perkins decided his choice. He wished one, in short, to do a 
certain piece of dirty work ; and, as if in anticipation of the 
future, he dreaded to unfold the case to any of the veterans, the 
old-time gentlemen and worthies of the bar. I proposed this to 
him. I offered to make a supposititious relation of the facts for 
the opinion of Mr. Edgerton and others — nay, pledged myself, 
to procure a confidential consultation — anything, sooner than 
that he should resort to a mode of extrication which, I assured 
him, would only the more deeply involve him in the meshes of 
disgrace and loss. But there was a fatality about this gentle- 
man — a doom that would not be baffled, and could not be 
stayed. The wilful mind always precipitates itself down the 
abyss ; and, whether acting by his own, or under the influence 
of another’s judgment, such was, most certainly, the case witli 
him. He was not to be saved. Mr. Perkins was regularly in- 
stalled as his defender — his counsellor, private and public—^ 
and I was conipelled, though with humiliating reluctance, to 
admit to the plaintiff’s. Banks & Tressell, that there was no 
longer any hope of compromise. The issue on which hung 
equally his fortune and his reputation was insanely challenged 
by my unolo. 


18 


COKPESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 


( HAPTER IX. 

» 

DUELLO. 

But my share in the troubles of this affair was not to end, • 
: though I was no longer my uncle’s counsellor. An event now s 
took place which gave the proceedings a new and not less un- j 
pleasing aspect than they had worn before. Mrs. Clifford, it ^ 
appears, in her communications to her ' husband’s lawyer, did : 
.not confine herself to the mere business of the lawsuit. Her < 
•voluminous discourse involved her opinions of her neighbors, ■ 
;friends, and relatives ; and, one day, a few weeks after, I was ’ 
suddenly surprised by a visit from a gentleman- — one of the : 
members of the bar — who placed a letter in my hands from Mr. : 
Perkins. I read this billet with no small astonishment. It . 
briefly stated that certain reports had reached his ears, that I 
had expressed myself contemptuously of his abilities and char- 
acter, and concluded with an explicit demand, not for an expla- 
nation, but an apology. My answer was immediate. 

“ You will do me the favor to say, Mr. Carter, that Mr. Per- 
kins has been misinformed. I never uttered anything in my 
life which could disparage either his moral or legal reputation.” 

“ I am sorry to say, Mr. Clifford,” was the reply, “ that de- 
nial is unnecessary, and can not be received. Mr. Perkins has 
his information from the lips of a lady ; and, as a lady is not 
responsible, she can not be allowed to err. I am required, sii 
to insist on an apology. I have already 'framed it, and it 
only needs your signature.” 

He drew a short, folded letter, from his pocket, and placed it 
before me. There was so much cool impertinence in this pro- 
• ceeding, and in the fellow’s manner, that I could with difficulty 
refrain from flinging the paper in his face. He was one of the 
little and vulgar clique of which I^erkius, was a sort of centre 


DUELLO. 


W 

The whole set were conscious enough of. die low estimate 
which was put upon them by the gentlemen; of the bar. Denied 
caste, they were disposed to force their way to recognition by 
the bully’s process, and stung by some recent discouragements, 
Mr. Perkins was, perhaps, rather glad than otherwise, of the 
silly, and no less malicious than silly, tattle of Mrs. Clifford 
for I did not doubt that the gross perversion of the truth which 
formed the basis of his note, had originated with her, which en- 
abled him to single out a victim, who, as the times went, had- 
suddenly risen to a comparative elevation which is not often 
accorded to a young beginner. I readily conjectured his object 
from his character and that of the man he sent. My own na- 
ture was passionate ; and the rude school through which my 
boyhood had gone, had made me as tenacious of my position as 
the grave. That I should be chafed by reptiles such as these, 
stung me to vexation ; and though I kept from any violence 
of action, my words did not lack of it. 

“ Mr. Perkins is, permit me to say, a very impertinent fel- 
low ; and, if you please, our conference will cease from this 
moment.” 

He was a little astounded — rose, and then recovering him- 
self, proceeded to reply with the air of a veteran martinet. 

“ I am glad, sir, that you give me an opportunity of proceed- 
ing with this business Avithout delay. , My friend, Mi\ Perkins, 
prepared me for some such ansAver. Oblige me, sir, by reading 
this paper.” He handed me the challenge for which his pre- 
liminaries had prepared me. 

“ Accepted, sir ; I will send my friend to you in the course- 
of the morning.” 

As I uttered this reply, I boAved and waved him to the door. 
He did not answer, other than by a boAV, and took his depart- 
ure. The promptness which I had shoAvn impressed him with' 
respect. Baffled, in his first spring, the bully, like the tiger, is 
very apt to slink back to his jungle. His departure gave me a 
brief opportunity for reflection, in Avhich I slightly turned over 
in my mind the arguments for and against duelling. But thes-i 
were noAV too late — even Avere they to decide me against tlie 
practice — to affect the present transaction; arid I sallied o^t tO' 
ijcek a friend — a friend ! 


80 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Here was tlie first difficulty. I had precious little choice 
among friends. My temper was not one calculated to make oi 
keep friends. My earnestness of character, and intensity of 
mood, made me dictatorial ; and where self-esteem is a large 
and active development, as it must be in an old aristocratic com- 
munity, such qualities are continually provoking popular hos- 
tility. My friends, too, were not of the kind to whom such 
scrapes as the present were congenial. I was unwilling to go 
to young Edgerton, as I did not wish to annoy his parents by 
my novel anxieties. But where else could I turn? To him I 
went. When he heard my story, he began by endeavoring to 
dissuade me from the meeting. 

“I am pledged to it, William,” was my only answer. 

“ But, Edward, I am opposed to duelling myself, and should 
not promote or encourage, in another, a practice which I would 
not be willing myself to adopt.” 

“ A good and sufficient reason, William. You certainly should 
not. I will go to Frank Kingsley.” 

“ He will serve you, I know ; but, Edward, this duelling is 
a bad business. It does no sort of good. Kill Perkins, and it 
does not prove to him, even if he were then able to hear, that 
Mrs. Olififord spoke a falsehood ; and if he kills you, you are 
even still farther from convincing him. 

“ I have no such desire, William ; and your argument, by 
the way, is one of those l^eggings of the question which the 
opponents of duelling continually fall into when discussing the 
subject. The object of the man, who, in a case like mine, 
fights a duel, is not to prove his truth, but to protect himself 
from persecution. Perkins seeks to bully and drive me out of 
the community. Public opinion here approves of this mode of 
protecting one’s self; — nay, if I do not avail myself of its 
agency, the same public opinion would assist my assailant in 
my expulsion. I fight on the same ground that a nation fights 
when it goes to war. It is the most obvious and easy mode to 
protect myself from injury and insult. So long as I submit, 
Perkins will insult and bully, and the city will encourage him= 
If I resist, I silence this fellow, and perhaps protect other 
young beginners. I have not the most distant idea of con- 
vincing him of my truth by fighting him — nay, the idea of 


DUKLLO. 


81 


giving liim satisfaction is^ an idea tliat never entered my brain. 
I simply take a popular mode of securing myself from outrage 
and persecution.” 

“ But, do you secure yourself? Has duelling this result?” 

“ Not invariably, pei baps ; simply because the condition of 
humanity does not recognise invariable results. If it is shown 
to be the probable, the frequent result, it is all that can be ex- 
pected of any human agency or law.” 

“ But, is it probable — frequent ?” 

“ Yes, almost certain, almost invariable. Look at the general 
manners, the deportment, the forbearance, of all communities 
where duelling is recognised as an agent of society. See the 
superior deference paid to females, the unfrequency of bully- 
ing, the absence of blackguarding, the higher tone of the 
public press, and of society in geixeral, from which the public 
press takes its tone, and which it represents in our country, but 
'does not often inform. Even seduction is a rare offence, and a 
matter of general exclamation, where this extra-judicial ager.'; 
is recognised.” 

And so forth. It is not necessary to repeat our discussion o) 
this vexed question, of its uses and abuses. I did not succeed 
in convincing him, and, under existing circumstances, it is Uv'^t 
reasonable to imagine that his arguments had any influence 
over me. To Frank Kingsley I w^ent, and found him in better 
mood to take up the cudgels, and even make my cause his own. 
He was one of those ardent bloods, who liked nothing better 
than the excitement of ,mch an affair ; whether as principal or 
assistant, it mattered little. To him I expressed my wish that 
hi? arrangements should bring the matter to an issue, if possible, 
within the iiext twenty four hours. 

“ Prime !” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “ That’s what 
I like. If you shoot as quickly now, and as much to the point, 
you may count any button on Perkins’s coat.” 

He proceeded to confer with the friend of my opponent, 
wdiile, with a meditative mind, I went to my office, nccossarii/ 
oppressed with the strange feelings belonging to my situation. 
In less than two hours after Kingsley brought me the carUy by 
which I found that the meeting was to take place two miles out 

4 * 


§2 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEARt. 


of town, by snnrise tlie day after the one ensuing — the weap- 
ons, pistols — distance, as customary, ten paces! 

“ You are a shot, of course?” said Kingsley. 

My answer, in the negative, astonished him. 

“ Why, you will have little or no time for practice.” 

“ I do not intend it My object is not to kill this man ; but 
to make him and all others see that the dread of Avhat may be 
done, either by him or them, will never reconcile me to submit 
to injury or insult. I shall as effectually secure this object by 
going out, as I do, without preparation, as if I were the best 
shot in America. He does iiot know that I am not ; and a 
pistol is always a source of danger when in the grasp of a deter- 
mined man.” 

“ You are a queer fellow in your notions, Clifford, and I can 
not say that I altogether understand you ; but you must cer- 
tainly ride out with me this afternoon, and bark a tree. It will 
do no hurt to a determined man to be a skilful one also.” 

“ I see no use in it.” 

“ Why — what if you should wish to wing him?” 

“ I think I can do it without practice. But I have no such 
desire.” 

“ Keally you are unnecessarily magnanimous. You may be 
put to it, however. Should the first shot be ineffectual and lu‘, 
should demand a second, would you throw away that also ?” 

“ No ! I should then try to shoot him. As mj’- simple aim is 
to secure myself from persecution, which is usually the most 
effectual mode of destroying a young man in this country, I 
should resort only to such a course as would be likely to yield 
me this security. That failing, I should employ stronger 
measures ; precisely as a nation would do in a similar conflict 
with another nation. One must not suffer himself to be de- 
stroyed or driven into exile. This is the first law of nature — 
this of self-preservation. In maintaining this law, a man must 
do any or all things which in his deliberate judgment, will be 
effectual for the end proposed. Were I fighting with savages, 
for example, and knew that they regarded their scalps with 
more reverence than their lives, I should certainly scalp as well 
as slay.” 

' They would call that barbarous ?” 


DUELLO. 


'* Ay, no doubt ; particularly in those countries where they 
paid from five to fifty, and even one hundred pounds to one In- 
dian for the scalp of his brother, until they rid themselves of 
both. But see you not that the scalping process, as it produces 
the most terror aud annoyance, is decidedly the most merciful, 
as being most likely t3 discourage and deter from war. If the 
B'jalp could be taken fi-om the head of every Seminole shot 
down, l;e sure the survivors ne^xr after would have come with- 
in range of rifle-shot.” 

But these discussions gave way to the business before me. 
I^ngsley left me to myself, and though sad and serious with op- 
pressive thoughts, I still had enough of the old habits, dominant 
with me, to go to my daily concerns, and arrange my papers 
with considerable industry and customary method. My profes 
sional business was set in order, and Edgerton duly initiated i7\ 
the knowledge of all such portions as needed explanation. 
This done, I sat down and wrote a long farewell letter to Julia, 
and one, more brief, but reneiving the counsel I had previously 
given to her father, in respect to the suit against him. These 
letters were so disposed as to be sent in the event of my falling 
in the fight. The interval which followed was not so easy to 
be borne. Conscience and reflection were eaually busy, and 
unpleasantly so. I longed for the time of action which should 
silence these unpleasant monitors. 

The brief space of twenty-four hours was soon overpassed, 
and my anxieties ceased as the moment for the meeting with 
my enemy, drew nigh. My friend called at my lodgings a 
good hour before daylight — it w^as a point of credit with him 
that we should not delay the opposite party the sixtieth part 
of a second. We drove out into the country in a close carriage; 
taking a surgeon — who was a friend of Kingsley — along with 
us. We were on the ground in due season, and some little time 
before our customers. But they did not fail or delay us. They 
were there with sufficient promptitude. 

Perkins was a man of coolness and courage. He took his 
position with admirable nonchalance ; but I observed, when his 
eyes met mine, that they were darkened with a scowl of anger. 
His brows were contracted, and his face which was ordinarily 
red, had an increased flush upon it which betrayed unusual ex- 


S4 CONFESSION, Oil THE BLIND HEART. 

citemeiit. He evidently regarded me with feelings of bittei 
animosity. Perhaps this was natural enouglHif he believed the 
story of Mrs. Clifford — and my scornful answer to his friend, 
Mr. Carter, was not calculated to lessen the soreness. For my 
part, I am free to declare, I had not the smallest sentiment of 
unkindness toward the fellow. I thought little of him, but did 
not hate — I could not have hated him. I had no wish to q(> 
him hurt ; and, as already stated, only went out to put a stop 
to the further annoyances of insolents and bullies, by the only 
effectual mode — precisely as I should have used a bludgeon 
over his head, in the event of a pei'sonal assault upon me. Of 
course, I had no purpose to do him any injury, unless with the 
view to my oAvn safety. I resolved secretly to throw away my 
fire. Kingsley suspected me of some such intention, and ear- 
nestly protested against it. 

“ I should not place you at all,” he said, if I fancied you 

could do a thing so d d foolish. The fellow intends to 

shoot you if he can. Help him to a share of the same sauce.” 

1 nodded as he proceeded to his arrangements. Here some 
conference ensued between the seconds : — 

“ Mr. Carter was very sorry that such a business must pro- 
ceed. Was it yet too late to rectify mistakes! Might not the 
matter be adjusted 

Kingsley, on such occasions, the very prince of punctilio^ 
agreed that the matter was a very lamentable one — to be re- 
gretted, and so forth — but of the necessity of the thing, he, 
Mr. Carter, for his principal, must be the only judge. 

“Mr. Carter could answer for his friend, Mr. Perkins, that he 
was always accessible to reason.” 

“ Mr. Kingsley never knew a man more so than Ms principal.” 

“ May we not reconcile the parties demanded Mr. Carter. 

” Does Mr. Perkins withdraw his message ?” answered Kings- 
ley by another question. 

“He would do so, readily, were there any prospect of adjust- 
ting the matter upon an honorable footing.” 

“ Mr. Carter will be pleased to name the basis for what he 
esteems an honorable adjustment.” 

“ Mr. Perkins withdrawTliis challenge,” 

“We have iio objection to that,” 


DUELLO. 


85 - 


“ He substitutes a courteous requisition upon Mr. Clifford for 
an explanation of certain language, supposed to be offensive, 
made to a lady.*’ 

“ Mr. Clifford denies, without qualification, the employment 
of any such language.” 

“This throws us back on our old ground,” said Carter — 
“ there is a lady in question — ” 

“ Who can not certainly be brought into the controversy,” 
said Kingsley — “ I see no other remedy, Mr. Carter, but that 
we should place the parties. We are here to answer to your 
final summons.” 

“ Very good, sir; this matter, and what happens, must lie atyour 
door. You are peremptory. I trust you have ju’ovided a surgeon.” 

“ His services are at your need, sir,” replied Kingsley with 
military courtesy. 

“1 thank you, sir — my remark had reference to your own 
necessity. Shall we toss up for the word ?” 

These preliminaries were soon adjusted. The word fell to 
Carter, and thus gave an advantage to Perkins, as his ear was 
more familiar than mine with the accents of his friend. Wo 
were placed, and the pistol put into my hands, without my ut- 
tering a sentence. 

“ Coolly now, my dear fellow,” said Kingsley in a whisper, 
as he withdrew from my side ; — “ wing him at least — but don’t 
burn powder for nothing.” 

Scarcely the lapse of a moment followed, when I heard the 
words “ one,” “ two,” “ three,” in tolerably rapid succession, 
and, at the utterance of the last, I pulled trigger. My antag- 
onist had done so at the first. His eye was fixed upon mine 
with deliberate malignity — that I clearly saw — but it did not 
affect my shot. This, I purposely threw away. The skill of 
my enemy did not correspondend with his evident desires. I 
w'as hurt, but very slightly. His bullet merely raised the skin 
upon the fleshy part of my right thigh. We kept our places 
while a conference ensued between the two seconds. Mr. Per- 
kins, through his friend, declared himself unsatisfied unless 1 
apologized, or — in less unpleasant language — explained. This 
demand was answered by Kingsley w ith cavalier indifference. 
He came to me with a second pistol. His good-humored visage 
was now slightly ruffled. 


/ 


'86 CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 

“ Clifford !” said he, as lie put the weapon into my hand, 
you must trifle no longer. This fellow abuses your generosity. 
He knows, as well as I, that you threw away your fire ; and 
he will play the same game with you, on the same terms, for a 
month together, Sundays not excepted. I am not willing to 
stand by and see you risk your life in this manner ; and, unless 
you tell me that you will give him as good as he sends, I leave 
you on the spot. Will you take aim this time 

- 1 will 

“ You promise me then 

“Ido!” 

I was conscious of the increased activity of my organ of 
destructiveness as I said these words. I smiled with a feeling 
of pleasant bitterness — that spicy sort of malice which you may 
sometimes rouse in the bosom of the best-natured man in the 
world, by an attempt to do him injustice. The wound I had 
received, though very trifling, had no little to do with this de- 
termination. It was not unlike such a wound as would be 
made by a smart stroke of a whip, and the effect upon my blood 
was pretty much as if it had been inflicted by some such instru- 
ment. I was stung and irritated by it, and the pertinacity of 
my enemy, particularly as he must have seen that my shot was 
thrown away, decided me to punish him if I could. I did so ! 
I was not conscious that I was hurt myself, until I saw him fal- 
ling 1 — I then felt a heavy and numbing sensation in the same 
thigh which had been touched before. A faintness relieved me 
from present sensibility, and when I became conscious, I found 
myself in the carriage, supported by Kingsley and the surgeon, 
on my way to my lodgings. My wound was a flesh wound 
only ; the ball was soon extracted, and in a few weeks after, i 
was enabled to move about with scarcely a feeling of incoi:- 
venience. My opponent su%*ered a much heavier penalty. The 
bone of his leg was fractured, and it was several mouths before 
he was considered perfectly safe. The lesson he got made him 
a sorer and shorter — a wiser, if not a better man ; but as I do 
not now, and did not then, charge myself with the task of 
bringing about his moral improvement, it is not incumbent upon 
me to say anything further on this subject. We will leave him 
to get better as he may. 


HEAD WINDS. 




chapter X. 

HEAD WINDS. 

The hiii-ts of Perkins did not, unhappily, delay the progress 
of my uncle to that destruction to which his silly wife and 
knavish lawyer had destined him. His business was brought 
before the court by the claimants, Messrs. Banks & Trossell ; 
mid a brief period only was left him for putting in his answer. 
When I thought of Julia, I resolved, in spite. of all previous 
difficulties — the sneers of the father, and the more direct, coarse 
insults of the mother — to make one more effort to rescue him 
from the fate which threatened him. I felt sure that, for the 
reasons already given, the merchants would still be willing to 
effect a compromise which would secure them the principal of 
their claim, without incurring the delay and risk of litigation. 
Accordingly, I penned a note to Mr. Clifford, requesting permis- 
sion to Avait upon him at home, at a stated hour. To this I re- 
ceived a cold, brief answer, covering the permission which I 
sought. I went, but might as well have spared myself the labor 
and annoyance of this visit. Mrs. Clifford was still in the as- 
cendant — still deaf to reason, and utterly blind to the base 
position into which her meddlesome interference in the business 
threw her husband. She had her answer ready ; and did not 
merely content herself with rejecting my overtures, but pro 
cceded to speak in the language of one who really regarded 
as busily seeking, by covert ways, to effect the ruin of her 
family. Her looks and language equally expressed the indig 
nation of a mind perfectly convinced of the fraudulent and e'^it 
purposes of the person she addressed. Those of my uncle v'ere 
scarcely less offensive. A grin of malicious self-gratulation 
mantled his lips as he thanked me for my counsel, which, h« 


88 


tUNPESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

yet remarked, “ however wise and good, and well-intended, he 

did not think it advisable to adopt. He had every confidence 

in the judgment of Mr. Perkins, who, though without the great 

legal knowledge of some i 

for his purposes ; and had 
>v.ij uiiitJient puiin. oC 

to regard it.” 

There was no doing anythingr with or for these people. The 
fiat for their overthrow had evidently been issued. The fatuity 
which leads to self-destruction was fixed upon them ; and, witli 
a feeding rather of commiseration than anger, I prepared to 
leave the house. In this interview, I made a discovery, which 
tended still more to lessen the hostility I might otherwise have 
felt toward my uncle. I was constrained to perceive that ho 
labored under an intellectual feebleness and incertitude which 
disconcerted his expression, left his thoughts seemingly without 
purpose, and altogether convinced me that, if not positively 
imbecile in mind and memory, there were yet some ugly symp- 
toms of incapacity growing upon him which might one day 
result in the loss of both. I had always known him to be a 
weak-minded man, disposed to vanity and caprice, but the Aveak- 
ness had expanded very much in a brief period, and now pre- 
sentco itself to my view in sundry very salient aspects. It 
was easy now to divert his attention from the business Avhich 
he had in hand — a single casual remark of courtesy or obser- 
vation yvould have this effect — and then his mind wandered 
f .'.m the subject with all the levity and caprice of a thoughtless 
damsel. He seemed to entertain now no sort of apprehension 
oi his legal difficulties, and spoke of them as topics already ad- 
justed Nay, for that matter, he seemed to lu?ve no serious 
cense of any subject, whatever might be its personal or general 
interest ; but, passing from point to point, exhibited tliat insta- 
bility of mental vision which may net inaptly be coinpar ^I to 
that Avandering glance Avhich is usually supposed to disting. .‘sh 
and denote, in the physical eye, the presence of ineanitv. It 
was not often now that he indulged, Avhile speaking to me, in 
that manner of hostility — those sneers and sarcastic remarks 
— which had bt.en his common habit. This was another proof 
rf the change which his mental man had undergone. It Avas 


ff his youthful neighbors, had enougii 

persuaded him to see the mattev 

nx wiiicn t was pleased 


HEAD WINDS. 


89 


not tli<at lie was inort prudent or more tolerant than before, 
lie was quite as little disposed to be generous toward me. But 
he now appeared Avholly incapable of that degree of intellectual 
concentration which could enable him to examine a subject to 
its close. He would begin to talk with me seriously enough, 
and with a due solemnity, about the suit against him ; but, in a 
tangent, he would dart off to the consideration of some trifle, 
some household matter, or petty affair, of which, at any other 
time, he nwst have known that his hearers had no wish to hear. 
Poor Julia confirmed the conjectures which I entertained, but 
did not utter, by telling me that her father had changed very 
much in his ways ever since this business had been begun. 

“Mother does not see it, but he is no longer the same man. 
Oh, Edward, I sometimes think he’s even growing childish.” 

The fear was a well-founded one. Before the case was tried, 
Mr. Clifford was generally regarded, among those who knew 
him intimately, as little better than an imbecile ; and so rapid 
uds the progress of his infirmity, that when the judgment was 
given, as it was, against him, he was wholly unable to under- 
stand or fear its '‘import. His own sense of guilt had antici- 
pated its effects, and his intense vanity v/as saved from public 
shame only by the substitution of public pity. The decree of 
the court gave all that was asked ; and the handsome compe- 
tence of the Cliffords was exchanged for a miserable pittance, 
which enabled the family to live only in the very humblest 
manlier. 

It will readily be conjectured, from what I have stated in 
respect to myself, that mine was not the disposition to seek 
revenge, or find cause for exultation in these deplorable events. 
I had no hostility against my unhappy uncle ; I should have 
scorned myself if I had. If such a feeling ever filled my bosom, 
it would have been most effectually disarmed by the sight ot 
the wretched old man, a grinning, gibbering idict, half-dancing 
and half-shivering from the cold, over the remnants of a 
able and scant fire in the severest evening in November. Is 
was when the affair was all over ; when the property of th« 
family was all in the hands of the sheriff; when the mischiev- 
ous counsel of such a person as Jonathan Perkins, Esquh - 
could do no more harm even to so foolish a person as my uncie’.j 


90 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


wife ; and when his presence, naturally enough withdrawn from 
a family from which he could derive no further profit, and 
which he had helped to ruin, was no longer likely to offend 
mine by meeting him there — that I proceeded to renew my 
■ direct intercourse with the unfortunate people whom I was not 
suffered to save. 

The reader is not to suppose that I had kept myself entirely 
aloof from the family until these disasters had happened. I 
sought Julia when occasion offered, and, though she refused it, 
tendered my services and my means whenever they might be 
bestowed with hope of good. And now, when all was over, 
and I met her at the door, and she sank upon my bosom, and 
wept in my embrace, still less than ever was I disposed to show 
to her mother the natural triumph of a sagacity which had 
shown itself at the expense of hers. I forgot, in the first glance 
of my uncle, all his folly and unkindness. He was now a shadow, 
and the mental wreck was one of the most deplorable, as it was 
one of the most rapid and complete, that eould be imagined. 
In less than seven months, a strong man — strong in health — 
f.trong, as supposed, in intellect — singularly acute in his deal- 
ings among tradesmen — regarded by them as one of the most i 
shrewd in the fraternity — vain of his parts, of his family, and j 
of his fortune — solicitotis of display, and constant in its indul- , 
gence ! — that such a man should be stricken down to imbecility 
and idiotism — a meagre skeleton in form — pale, puny, timid 
— crouching by the fireplace — grinning with stealthy ■ looks, 
momently cast around him — and playing — his most constant 
employment — with the bellows-strings that hung beside him, 
or the little kitten, that, delighted with new consideration, had 
learned to take her place constantly at his feet ! What a 
wreck ! 

But the moral man had been wrecked before, or this could 
not have been. It was only because of his guilt — of its expo- 
sure rather — that he sunk. In striving to shake off the op- 
pressive burden, he shook off the intellect which had been com- 
pelled chiefly to endure it. The sense of shame, the conviction 
of loss, and, possibly, other causes of conscience which lay yet 
deeper — for the progeny of crime is -most fre<j[uently a litter as 
numerous as a whelp's puppies -^'helped to crush the mind 


HEAD WINDS. 


93 


wliicli was neither strong enough to resist temptation at first, 
nor to bear exposure at la§t. I turned away with a tear, which 
I could not suppress, from the wretched spectacle. But I coulc 
have borne with more patience to behold this ruin, than to sub- 
due the rising reproach which I felt as I turned to encounter 
Mrs. OlifPord. 

This weak woman, still weak, received me coldly, and I could 
see in her looks that she regarded me as one whom it was natu- 
ral to suppose would feel some exultation at beholding their down- 
fall. I saw this, but determined to say nothing, in the attempt to 
undo these impressions. I knew that time was the best teacher 
in all such matters, and resolved that my deportment should 
gradually make her wiser on the subject of that nature whic]» 
she had" so frequently abused, and which, I well knew, slio 
could never understand. But this hope* I soon discovered to 
be unavailing. Her disaster had only soured, not subdued her; 
and, with the natural tendency of the vulgar mind, she seemed 
to regard me as the person to whom she should ascribe all her 
misfortunes. As, to her narrow intellect, it seemed natural 
that I should exult in the accomplishment of my predictions, so 
it w.as a process equally natural that she should couple me with’ 
their occurrence; and, indeed, I was too nearly' connected witli 
the event, through the medium of my unconscious father, not 
to feel some portion of the affliction on his account also ; though 
neither his memory nor my' reputation suffered from the devel- 
opment of the affair in the community where we lived. 

Mrs. Clifford did not openly', or in words, betray the feelings 
which were striving in her soul ; but the general restraint which 
she put upon herself in my presence, the acerbity of her tone, 
manner, and language, to poor Julia, and the unvaried queru- 
lousness of her remarks,, were sufficient to apprize me of the 
spite which she would have willingly' bestowed upon myself, 
liad she any' tolerable occasion for doing so. A few weeks 
served still further to humble the conceit and insolence of the 
unfortunate woman. The affair turned out much more seriously 
than I expected. A suddei^ffill in the value of real and per- 
sonal estate, just about the time when the sheriff’s sale took 
placc,*rendered necessary a second levy', which swept the mis- 
erable remnant of Mr. Clifford’s fortune, leaving nothing to my 


9 :? 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


uncle but a small estate wTiicli had been secured by settlement 
to Mrs. Clifford and her daughter, and which the sheriff could 
not legally lay hands on. 

I came forward at this juncture, and, having allowed them tA 
remove into the small tenement to which, in their reduced con- 
dition they found it prudent to retire, I requested a })riyate inter- 
view with Mi'o. Clifford, and readily obtained it. 

I was received by the good lady in apparent state. All the 
little furniture which she could save from the former, was trans- 
ferred very inappropriately to the present dwelling-house. The 
one was quite unsuited to the other. The massive damask cur- 
tains accorded badly with the little windows over which they 
were now suspended, and the sofa, ten feet in length, occupied 
an unreasonable share of an apartment twelve by sixteen. The 
dais of piled cushions, *011 which so many fashionable groups had 
lounged in better times, now seemed a mountain, which begot 
ideas of labor, difficulty, and up-hill employment, rather than 
case, as the eye beheld it cumbering two thirds of the miserable 
area into which it was so untastefully compressed. These, and 
other articles of splendor and' luxury, if sold, would have yielded 
her the means to buy furniture more suitable to her circumstances 
and situation, and left her with some additional resources to meet 
the daily and sometimes pressing exigencies of life. 

The appearance of this parlor argued little in behalf of 
the salutary effect which such reverses might be expected 
to produce in a mind even tolerably sensible. They argued, 
J fancied, as unfavorably for my suit as for the humility of 
the lady whom I was about to meet. If the parlor of Mrs. 
Clifford bore such sufficient tokens of her weakness of in- 
tellect, her own costume betrayed still more. She had made her 
person a sort of frame or rack upon which she hung every par- 
ticle of that ostentatious drapery which she was in the habit of 
V earing at her fashionable evenings. A year’s income was para- 
ded upon her back, and the trumpery jewels of three generations 
found a place on every part of her person where it is usual for 
fashionable folly to display such gewgaws. She sailed into the 
room in a style that brought to my mind instantly the description 
which Milton gives of the approach of Delilah to Samson, after 
the first days of his blind captivity : - 


HEAD WINDS. 


93 


''But who is this, what thing of sea or land — 

Female of sex it seems — 

That so bedecked, ornate and gay, 

Comes this way sailing, like a stately ship 
Of Tarsus, bound for the isles 
^ Of Javan or Gadirc, 

With all her bravery on and tackle trim, 

Sails filled, and streamers waving. 

Courted by all the winds that hold their play. 

An amber scent of odorous perfume 
Her harbinger !” 

No description could have been more just and literal in the case 
of Mrs. Clifford. I could scarce believe my eyes ; and when 
forced to do so, I could scarcely suppose that this bravery was 
intended for my eyes only. Nor was it; — but let me not antici- 
pate. This spectacle, I need not say, sobered me entirely, if axiy- 
thing was necessary to produce this effect, and increased the 
’ grave apprehensions which were already at my heart. The next 
I consequence was to make the manner of my communication se- 
rious even to severity. A smile, which was of that doubtful sort 
which is always sinister and offensive, overspread heiTips as she 
I motioned me to resume the seat from which I had risen at her 

I entrance ; while she threw herself with an air of studied negli- 

gence upon one part of the sofa. I felt the awkwardness of my 
position duly increased, as her house, dress, and manner, con- 
vinced me that she was not yet subdued to hers ; but a conscious 
rectitude of intention carried me forward, and lightened the task 
to my feelings. 

I " Mrs. Clifford,” I said, without circumlocution, “ I have pre^ 
Slimed to ask your attention this morning to a brief communica 
I tion which materially affects my happiness, and which I trust 
may not diminish, if it does not actually promote, yours. Before 
I make this communication, however, I hope I may persuade 
'myself that the little misunderstandings which have occurred^ 
between us are no longer to be considered barriers to our mutual 
peace and happiness ” 

‘ Misunderstandings, Mr. Clifford t — I don’t know what mis- 
anderstandings you mean. I’m sure I’ve never misunderstood 
you.” 

I could not m'sunderstand the insolent tenor of this speech. 


94 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

but I availed myself of the equivoque which it involved to ex 
press my gratification that such was the case. 

“ My path will then be more easy, Mrs. Clifford — my purpose 
more easily explained.” 

“ I am glad you think so, sir,” she answered coolly, smoothing 
down certain folds of her frock, and crossing her hands upon her 
lap, while she assumed the attitude of a patient listener. There 
was something very repulsive in all this ; but I saw that the only 
way to lessen the unpleasantness of the scene, and to get on 
with her, would be to make the interview as short as possible, 
and come at once to my .object. This I did. 

“ It is now more than a year, Mrs. Clifford, since I had the 
honor to say to my uncle, that I entertained for my cousin Julia 
such a degree of affection as to make it no longer doubtful to 
me that I should best consult my own happiness by seeking to 
make her my wife. I had the pleasure at the same time to in- 
form him, which I believed to be true, that Julia herself was 
not unwilling that such should be the nearer tie between us — — ” 

“ Yes, yes, Mr. Clifford, I know all this ; but my husband and 
myself thought better of it, and ” she said with fidget ty im- 

patience. 

“ And my application was refused,” I said calmly ; thus fin- 
ishing the sentence where she had paused. 

“Well, sir, and what then ?” 

“ At that time, madam, my uncle gave as a reason that he had 
other arrangements in view.” 

“ Yes, sir, so we had ; and this reminds me that those arrange- 
ments were broken off entirely in consequence of the perversity 
which you taught my daughter. I know it all, cir ; there’s no 
more need to tell me of it, than there is to deny it. You put 
my daughter up to refusing young Eoberts, who would have 
jumped at her, as his father did — and he one of the best families 
and best fortunes in the city. I’m sure I don’t know, sir, what 
object you can have in reminding me of these things.” 

Here was ingenious perversity. I bore with it as well as I 
could, and strove to preserve my consideration and calmness. 

“ You do your daughter injustice, Mrs. Clifford, and me no less, 
in this opinion. But I do not seek to remind you j>f misunder- 
stmulings and mistakes, the memory of which can do no good, 


HEAD WmDS. 


95 

My purpose now is to renew the oiFer to you which I originally 
made to Mr. Clifford. My attachment to your daughter remains 
unaltered, and I am happy to say that fortune has favored me so 
far as to enable me to place' her in a situation of comparative 
comfort and independence which I could not offer then ” 

“ Which is as much as to say that she don’t enjoy comfort 
and independence where she is; and if she does not, sir, to 
whom is it all owing, sir, but to you and your father ? By 
your means it is that we are reduced to poverty ; but you shall 
see, sir, that we are not entirely wanting in independence. My 
answer, sir, is just the same as Mr. Clifford’s was. I am very 
much obliged to you for the honor you intend my family, but 
we must decline it. As for the comfort and independence which 
you proffer to my daughter, I am happy to inform you that she 
can receive it at any moment from a source perhaps far more 
able than yourself to afford both, if her perversity does not 
stand in the way, as it did when young Roberts made his offers. 
Mr. Perkins, sir, the excellent young man that you tried to 
murder, is to be here, sir, this very morning, to see my daugh- 
ter. Her&fs his letter, sir, w'hich you may read, that you may 
be under up apprehensions that my daughter will ever suffer 
from a want of comfort and independence.” 

She flung a letter down on the sofa beside her, but I simply 
bowed, and declined looking at it. I did not, however, yield 
the contest in this manner. I urged all that might properly be 
urged on the subject, and with as much earnestness as could be 
permitted in an interview with a lady — and such a lady i — 
but, as the reader may suppose, my toils were taken in vain : 
all that I could suggest, either in the shape of reason or expos- 
tulation, only served to make her more and more dogged, and 
to increase her tone of insolence ; and sore, stung with vexation, 
disappointed, and something more than bewildered, I dashed 
almost headlong out of the house, without seeing either Julia 
or her father, precisely at the moment when Mr. Perkins was 
about to enter. 


96 


C0NFf;ssi0N, on the wlind heart. 


CHAPTER XI. 

CRISIS. 

The result of this interview of my rival with the mother of 
Julia, was afforded me by the latter. The mother had already 
given her consent to his suit — that of Julia alone was to be ob- 
tained ; and to this end the arts of the suitor and the mother 
were equally devoted. Her refusal only brought with it new 
forms of persecution. Her steps were haunted by the swain, 
to whom Mrs. Clifford gave secret notice of all her daughter's 
intentions. He was her invariable attendant at church, where 
I had the pain jeonstantly to behold them, in such close prox- 
imity, that I at length abandoned the customary house of wor- 
ship, and found my pew in another, where I could be enabled 
to endure the forms of service without being oppresssd by for- 
eign and distracting thoughts and fancies. 

Of the progress of the suit I had occasional intelligence from 
Julia herself, whom I had, very reluctantly on her part, per- 
suaded to meet me at the house of a female relative and friend, 
who favored our desires and managed our interviews. Brief were 
these stolen moments, but oh, hoAv blissful ! The pleasures 
they afforded, however, were almost wholly mine. The clan- 
destine character of our meetings served to deprive her of the 
joy which they otherwise might have yielded ; and the fear 
that she v/as not doing right, humbled her spirit and made her 
tremble with frequent apprehensions. 

At length Mrs; Clifford suspected our interviews, and de- 
tected them. We had a most stormy scene on one occasion, 
when the sudden entrance of this lady surprised us together, at 
the house of our friend, lire consequence of this was, a rupture 
b< tweeh the hulks, whioh resulted in Julia’s being forbiddcli to 
visit the house of her relative again, This measure was fob 


CRISIS. 


97 


lowed by others of such precaution, that at length I could no 
longer communicate with her, or even seek her, unless when 
she was on her way to church. Her appearance then was such 
as to awaken all my apprehensions. Her form, always slender, 
was become more so. The change was striking in a single 
week. Her face, usually pale and delicate, was now haggard. 
Her walk was feeble, and without elasticity. Her whole appear- 
ance was wo-begone and utterly spiritless. Days and weeks 
passed, and my heart was filled with hourly-increasing appre- 
hensions. I returned to theiftimiliar church, but here I suffered 
a new alarm. That sabbath the family pew was unoccupied. 
While I trembled lest something serious had befallen her, I was 
called on by the family physician. This gentleman had been al- 
ways friendly. He had been my father’s physician, and had 
been his friend and frequent guest ; he knew my history, and synv- 
pathized with my fortunes. He now knew the history of Ju- 
lia’s affections. She had made him her confidante so far. and 
he brought me a letter from her. She was sick, as I expected 
This letter was of startling tenor : — 

“ Save me, Edward, if you can. I am now willing to do as 
you proposed. I can no longer endure these annoyances — 
these cruel persecutions ! My mother tells me that I must sub- 
mit and m-any this man, if we would save ourselves from ruin. 
It seems he nas a claim against the estate for professional ser- 
vices ; and as we have no other means of payment, without the 
sale of all tliat is left, he is base enough to insist upon my hand 
as the condition of his forbearance. He uses threats now, since 
entreaties I'ave failed him. Oh, Edward, if you can save me, 
come! — fo' of a certainty, I ca.u not bear this persecution 
much long* ' and live. I am now willing to consent to do what 
Aunt Sop’ y recommended. Do not think me bold lo say 
so, dear 7 Iward — if I am bold, it is despair which makes 
me so.” 

I read Eis letter with mingled feelings of indignation and 
delight- indignation, because of the cruelties to which the 
worthlei mother and the base suitor subjected one so dear and 
innocen delight, since the consent which she now yielded 
placed e means of saving her at my control. The consent 
was to flight and clandestine marriage, to which I had, with 

6 


98 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the assistance of our mutual friend, endeavored to persuade her, 
in several instances, before. 

The question now was, how to effect this object, since we 
had no opportunities for communication ; but, before I took any 
steps in the matter, I made it a point of duty to deprive the 
infamous attorney, Perkins, of his means of power over the un- 
happy family. I determined to pay his legal charges ; and 
William Edgerton, at my request, readily undertook this part 
of the business. They were found to be extortionate, and far 
beyond anything either warrantel by the practice or the fee- 
bill. Edgerton counselled me to resist the claim ; but the sub- 
ject was too delicate in all its relations, and my own affair with 
Perkins would have made my active opposition seem somewhat 
the consequence of malice and inveterate hostility. I preferred 
to pay the excess, wnich was done by Edgerton, rather than 
have any further dispute or difficulty with one whom I so much 
despised. Complete satisfaction was entered upon the records 
of the court, and a certified discharge, under the hand of Per- 
kins himself — whicn ne gave with a reluctance full of mortifi- 
cation — was sent in a blank envelope to Mrs. Clifford. She 
was thus deprived of the only excuse — if, indeed, such a wo- 
man ever needs an excuse for wilfulness — for persecuting her 
unhappy daughter on the score of^the attorney. 

But the possession of this document effected no sort of change 
in her conduct. She pursued her victim with the same old te- 
nacity. It was not to favor Perkins that she strove for this 
object : it was to baffie me. That blind heart, which misguides 
all of us in turn, was predominant in her, and rendered her to- 
tally incapable of seeing the cruel consequences to her daughter 
which her perseverance threatened. Julia was now so feeble 
as scarcely to leave her chamber ; the physician was daily in 
attendance ; and, though I could not propose to make use of 
his services in promoting a design which would subject him to 
the reproach of the grossest treachery, yet, without counsel, he 
took it upon him plainly to assure the mother that the disorder 
of her daughter arose solely from her mental afflictions. He 
went farther. Mrs. Clifford, whose garrulity was as notorious 
as her vanity and folly, herself took occasion, when this was 
told her, to asci’ibe the effect to me } and, with her own color 


CRISIS. 


99 


ing, she continued, by going into a lony history of our “ course 
of wooing.” The doctor availed hin^lf of these statements to 
suggest the necessity of a coinpr^ise, assuring Mrs. Clifford 
that I was really a more deserv^g person than she thought 
me, and, in short, that some con^sions must he made, if it was 
her hope to save her daughteiVlife. 

“ She is naturally feeble o^rame, nervous and sensitive, and 
these excitements, pressing/upon her, will break down her con- 
stitution and her spirits together. Let me warn you, Mrs. Clif- 
ford, while yet in seasoi), Dismiss your prejudices against this 
young man, whether w«ll or ill founded, and permit your daugh- 
ter to marry him. ^ffer me to assure you, Mrs. Clifford, that 
such an event will do more toward her recovery than all my 
medicine.” 

“What, and ^e him the master of my house — he, the poor 
beggar-boy that my husband fed in charity, and who turned 
from him wit^i ingratitude in his moment of difficulty, and left 
Iiiin to be despoiled by his enemies ? Never ! never ! Daugh- 
ter of mine shall never be wife of his ! The serpent ! to sting 
the hand of his benefactor !” 

“ My dear Mrs. Clifford, this prejudice of yours, besides being 
totally unfounded, amounts to monomania. Now, I know some- 
thing of all these matters, as you should be aware ; and I should 
be sorry to counsel anything to you or to your family which 
would be either disgraceful or injurious. So far from this young 
man being ungrateful, neglectful, or suffering your husband to 
be preyed on by enemies, I am of opinion that, if his coun- 
sel had been taken in this late unhappy business, you would 
probably have been spared all of the misery and nearly one 
half of the loss which has been incurred by the refusal to 
do so.” 

“And so you, too, are against us, doctor? You, too, believe 
everything that this young man tells you ?” 

“ No, madam ; 1 assure you, honestly, that I never heard a 
single word from his lips in regard to this subject. It is spoken 
of by everybody but himself.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! the whole town knows it, and from who else but 
him, I wonder? But you needn’t to talk, doctor, on the sub- 
ject. My mind’s made up. Edward Clifford, while I have 


100 


.CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


breath to say ‘No/ anl a hand to turn the lock of the doot 
agpunst him, shall never ^gain darken these doors !” 

The physician was a irnn of too much experience to waste 
labor upon a case so decidedly hopeless. He knew that no art 
within his compass could curt so thorough a case of heart-blind- 
ness, and he gave her up; buihe did not give up Julia. Ho 
whispered words of consolation into her ears, which, though 
vague, were yet far more useful than physic. 

“ Cheer up, my daughter ; be of good heart and faith. I aw. 
mre that there will be some remedy provided for you, before 
long, which will do you good. I have given the letter to your 
aunt, and she promises to do as you wish.” 

It may be said, en passant, that the billet sent to me had 
been covered in another to my female friend and Julia’s rela- 
tive ; and that the doctor, though not unconscious of the agency 
of this lady between us, was yet guilty of no violation of the 
faith which is always implied between the family and the phy^- 
sician. He might suspect, but he did not Icnoio ; and whatever 
might have been his suspicions, he certainly did not have the 
most distant idea of that concession which Julia had made, and 
of the course of conduct for which her mother’s persecutions 
had now prepared her mind. 

Mr. Perkins, though deprived of his lien upon Mrs. Clifford, 
by reason of his claim, did not in the least forego his inten- 
tions. His complaints and threatenings necessarily ceased — 
his tone was something lowered ; but he possessed a hold upon 
this silly woman’s prejudices which was far superior to any 
which he might before have had upon her fears. His hostility 
to me was grateful to the hate which she also entertained, and 
which seemed to be more thoroughly infixed in her after her 
downfall — which, as it has been seen, she ascribed to me; 
chiefiy because of my predictions that such would be the case. 
In due proportion to her hate for me, was her desire to baffle 
my wishes, even though it might be at the expense of her own 
daughter’s life. But a vain mother has no affections — none, at 
least, worthy of the name, and none which she is not prepared 
to discard at the first requisition of her dearer self. Her hate 
of me was so extreme as to render her blind to everything be- 
sides — her daughter’s sickness, the counsel of tlic pliysician, 


CRISIS. 


101 


the otherwise obvious vulgarity and meanness of Perkins, and 
that gross injustice which I had sufiPered at her hands from the 
beginning, and which, to many minds, might have amply justi- 
fied in me the hostile feelings which she laid to my charge. In 
this, blindness she precipitated events, and by her cruelty justi- 
fied extremities in self-defence. The moment that Julia exhib- 
ited some slight improvement, she was summoned to an inter- 
view with Perkins, and in this interview her mother solemnly 
swore that she should marry him. The base-minded suitor 
stood by in silence, beheld the loathing of the maiden, heard 
her distinct refusal, yet clung to his victim, and permitted the 
violence of the mother, without rebuke — that rebuke which the 
true gentleman might have administered in such a case, and 
which, to forbear, was the foulest shame — the rebuke of his 
own decided refusal to participate in such a sacrifice. But he 
was not capable of this ; and Julia, stunned and terrified, was 
shocked to hear Mrs. Clifford appoint the night of the following 
Thursday for the forced nuptials. 

“She will consent — she shall consent, Mr. Perkins,” were 
the vehement assurances of the mother, as the craven-spirited 
suitor prepared .to take his leave. “ I know her better than you 
do, and she knows me. Do you fear nothing, but bring Mr 

” (the divine) “along with you. We shall put an end to 

this folly.” 

“ Oh, do not, do not, mother, if you would not drive me mad !” 
was the exclamation of the destined victim, as she threw her- 
self at the feet of her unnatural parent. “ You will kill me to 
wed this man! I can not marry him — I can not love him. 
Why would you force this matter upon me — why ! why 1” 

“ Why will you resist me, Julia ? why will you provoke your 
mother to this degree ? You have only to consent willingly, 
and you know how kind I am.” 

“ I can not consent 1” was the gasping decision of the maiden. 

“ You shall ! you must ! you will !” 

“ Never ! never ! On my knees I say it, mother. God will 
witness what you refuse to believe. I will die before I consent 
to marry where I do not give my heart.” 

“ Oh, you talk of dying, as if it was a very easy matter. But 
you won’t die. It’s more easy to say than do. Do you come. 


102 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Mr. Perkins. Don’t you mind — don’t you believe in these 
denials, and oaths, and promises. It’s the way with all young 
ladies. They all make a mighty fuss when they’re going to be 
married ; but they’re all mighty willing, if the truth was known. 
I ought to know something about it. I did just the same as she 
when I was going to marry Mr. Clifford ; yet nobody was more 
willing than I was to get a husband. Do you come and bring 
the parson ; she’ll sing a different tune when she stands up be- 
fore him, I warrant you.” 

“That shall never be, Mr. Perkins!” said the maiden sol- 
emnly, and somewhat approaching the person whom she ad- 
dressed. “ I have already more than once declined the honor 
you propose to do me. I now repeat to you that I will sooner 
marry the grave and the winding-sheet than be your wife I My 
mother mistakes me and all my feelings. For your own sake, 
if not for mine, I beg that you will not mistake them ; for, if 
the strength is left me for speech, I will declare aloud to the 
reverend man whom you are told to bring, the nature of those 
persecutions to which you have been privy. I will tell him of 
the cruelty whicli I have been compelled to endure, and which 
you have beheld and encouraged Avith your silence.” 

Perkins looked aghast, muttered his unwillingness to prose- 
cute his suit under such circumstances, and prepared to take 
his leave. His mutterings and apologies were all swallowed 
up in that furious storm of abuse and denunciation which noAv 
poured from the lips of the exemplary mother. These we need 
not repeat. Suffice it that the deep feelings of Julia — her 
sense of propriety and good taste — prevailed to keep her silent, 
while her mother, still raving, renewed her assurances to th 
pettifogger that he should certainly receive his wife at hei 
hands on the evening of the ensuing Thursday. The unmanly 
• suitor accepted her assurances — and took leave of mother and 
daughter, with the expression of a simpering hope, intended 
chiefly for the latter, that her objections would resolve them- 
selves into the usual maidenly scruples when the appointed 
time should arrive Julia mustered strength enough to reply in 
language which brought down another storm from her mother 
upon her devoted head. 

“Do not deceive -Terkins — do not let the assn- 


CRISIS. 


103 

ranees of my jnotlier deceive you. She does not know me. T 
can not and will not marry you. I will sooner marry the grave 
— the winding-sheet — the worm !” 

Her strength failed her the moment he left the apartment. 
She' sank in a fainting-fit upon the floor, and was thus saved 
from hearing the hitter abuse which her miserable and mis- 
guided parent continued to lavish upon her, even while under- 
taking the task of her restoration. The evident exhaustion of 
her frame, her increasing feebleness, the agony of her mind, 
and the possibly, fatal termination of her indisposition, did not 
in the least serve to modify the violent and vexing mood of 
this most unnatural woman! 


104 


CONFESSION, CR THE BLIND HEART. 


• CHAPTER XII 

“GONE TO BE MARRIED.” 

Tjjese proceedings, the tenor of which Avas briefly communi- 
cated to me in a hurried note from Julia, despatched by the 
hands of the physician, under a cover, to the friendly aunt, ren- 
dered it imperatively neces'sary that, whatever we proposed to 
do should be done quickly, if we entertained any hope to save 
her. Tlie tone of her epistle alarmed me exceedingly in one 
respect, as it evidently showed that she could not much longer 
save herself Her courage was sinking with her spirits, Avhich 
were yielding rapidly beneath the continued presence of that 
persecution , which had so long been acting upon her. She 
began now to distrust her own strength — her very powers of 
utterance to declare her aversion to the proposed marriage, if 
ever the trial was brought to the threatened issue before the 
holy man. 

“What am I to do — what say — ” demanded her trembling 
epistle, “should they go so far? Am I to declare the truth? 
— can I tell to strange ears that it is my mother who forces this 
cruel sacrifice upon me ? I dread I can not. I fear that my 
soul and voice will equally fail me. I tremble, dear Edward, 
when I think that the awful moment may find me speechless, 
and my consent may be assumed from my silence. Save me 
from this trial, dearest Edward; for I fear everything now — 
am fear myself — my unhappy weakness of nerve and spirit — 
more than all. Do not leave me to this trial of my strength — 
for I have none. Save me if you can !” 

■ It may be readily believed that I needed little soliciting to 
exej’tion after this. 'The words of this letter occasioned an 
alarm; in my mind, little less — though of a different kind — 
than that which prevailed in hers. I knew the weaklices of 


GONE TO BE MARRIED. 


105 


here — I knew hers — and felt the apprehension that she might 
fail at the proper moment, even moro vividly than she ex 
pressed it. 

Thi« did not take me by surprise. Before it was re- 

ceived, and soon after the first with which she had favored me, 
by the hands of the friendly physician, I had begun my prep- 
arations with the view to our clandestine marriage. I was only 
now required to quicken them. The obstacle, on the face of 
it, was, comparatively, a small one. To get her from a dwel- 
ling, in which, though her steps were watched, she was not ex- 
actly a prisoner, was scarcely a difficulty, where the lover and 
the lady are equally willing. 

Our mode of operations was simple. There was a favorite 
servant — a negro — who had been raised in the family, had 
been a playmate with my poor deceased cousin and myself, and 
had always been held in particular regard by both of us. lie 
was not what is called a house-servant, but was employed in 
the yard in doing various offices, such as cutting wood, tending 
the garden, going of messages,'and so forth. This was in the 
better days of the Clifford family. Since its downfall he had 
been instructed to look an owner, and, opportunely, at this 
moment, when I was deliberating upon the process I should 
adopt for the extrication of his young mistress, he came to me 
to request that I would buy him. The presence of this servant 
suggested to me that he could assist me materially in my plans, 
Without suffering him to know the intention which I had formed, 
I listened to his garrulous harangue. A negro is usually very 
copious, where he has an auditor ; and though, from his situa- 
tion, he could directly see nothing of the proceedings in the 
house of his owner, yet, from his fellow-servants he had con- 
trived to gather, perhaps, a very correct account of the general 
condition of things. It appeared from his story that the at- 
tachment of Miss Julia to myself was very commonly under- 
stood. The effort of the mother to persuade her to marry Per- 
kins was also known to him ; but of the arrangement that the 
marriage should take place at the early day mentioned in her 
^ note, he told me nothing, and, in all probability, this part of 
i her proceedings was kept a close secret by the wily dame 

I Peter — the name of the negro — went on to add, that, loving 


106 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

me, and loving his young mistress, and knowing that we loved 
one another, and believing that we should one day be married, 
he was anxious to have me for lilo fiitiire owner. 

“ I will buy you, Peter, on one condition." 

“ Wha’s dat. Mas’ Ned ?” 

“ That you serve me faithfully on trial, for five days, with- 
out letting anybody know who you seiwe — that you carry my 
messages without letting any'^body hear them except that per- 
son to whom you are sent — and, if I give you a note to carry, 
that you carry it safely, not only without suffering anybody to 
see the note but the one to whom I send it, but without suffer- 
ing anybody to know or suspect that you’ve got such a thing as 
a note about you.” 

The fellow was all promises; and I penned a billet to Julia 
which, in few words, briefly prepared her to expect my at- 
tendance at her house at three in the afternoon of the very day 
when her nuptials were contemplated. I then proceeded to a 
friend — Kingsley — the friend who had served me in the meet- 
ing with Perkins ; a bold, dashing, frank fellow, who loved 
nothing better than a frolic which worried one of the parties ; 
and who, I well knew, would relish nothing more than to baffle 
Perkins in a love affair, as we had already done in one of 
strife. To him I unfolded my plan and craved his assistance, 
which was promised instantly. My female friend, the relative 
of Julia, whose assistance had been already given us, and 
whose’‘quarrel with Mrs. Clifford in consequence, had spiced her 
detei’mination to annoy her still further whenever occasion of- 
fered, was advised of our plans ; and William Edgerton readily 
undertook what seemed to be the most innocent part of all, to 
procure a priest to officiate for us, at the house of the lady in 
question, and at the appointed time. 

My new retainer, Peter, brought me due intelligence of the 
delivery of the note* in secret, to Julia, and a verbal answer 
from her made me sanguine of success. The day came, and 
the hour ; and in obedience to our plan, my friend, Kingsley, 
proceeded boldly to the dwelling of Mrs. Clifford, just as that 
lady had taken her seat at the dinner-table, requesting to sec 
and speak with her on business of importance. The interview 
was vouchsafed him, though not until the worthy lady had in- 


GONE TO BE M illRIEm 107 

structed the servant to say that she was just then at the dinner* 
table, and would be glad if the gentleman would call again. 

But the gentleman regretted that he could not call again. 
He was from Kentucky, desirous of buying slaves, and must 
leave town the next morning for the Avest. The mention of his 
occupation, as Mrs. Clifford had slaves to sell, Avas sufficient to 
persuade her to lay down the knife and fork with promptness 
and the servant was bade to show the Kentucky gentleman 
into the parlor. Our arrangement was, that, Avith the departure 
of the lady from the table Julia should leave it also — descend 
the stairs, and meet me at the entrance. 

Trembling almost to fainting, the poor girl came to me, and 1 
received her into my arms, with something of a tremor also, i 
felt the prize would be one that I should be very loath to lose ; 
and joy led to anxiety, and my anxiety rendered me nervoufc 
to a womanly degree. But I did not lose my composure ane 
Avhen I had taken her into my arms, I thought it Avould be onj'^ 
a prudent precaution to turn the key in the outer door, an., 
leave it somewhere along the highway. This I did, absolutei;^^ 
j forgetting, that, in thus securing myself against any sudder 
pursuit, I had also locked up my friend, the Kentucky trader. 

Fortune favored our movements. Our preparations had been 
properly laid, and Edgerton had the divine in waiting. In less 
than half an hour after leaving the house of her parents, Julia 
and myself stood up to be married. Pale, feeble, sad — the 
poor girl, though she felt no reluctance, and suffered not the 
most momentary remorse for the steps she had taken, and Avas 
about to take, was yet necessarily and naturally impressed Avith 
the solemnity and the doubts which hung over the event. 
Young, timid, artless, apprehensive, she was unsupported by 
those whom nature had appointed to watch over and protect 
her ; and though they had neglected, and would have betrayed 
their trust, she yet could not but feel that there was an incom- 
pleteness about the affaii*, which, not even the solemn accents 
of the priest, the deep requisitions of those pledges which she 
was called upon to make, and the evident conviction Avhich she 
now entertained, that what had been done Avas necessary to be 
done, for her happiness, and even her life — could entirely re- 
move. There was an aAvful but sweet earnestness in the gqfj, 


108 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


intense glance of entreaty, with which she regarded me when 
I made the final response. Her large black eye dilated, even 
under the dewy suffusion of its tears, as it seemed to say ; — 

“It is to you now — to you alone — that I look for that pro- 
tection, that happiness which was denied where I had best right 
to look for it. Ah ! let me not look, let me not yield myself to 
you in vain !” 

How imploring, yet how resigned was that glance of tears — 
love in tears, yet love that trusted without fear ! It was the 
embodiment of innocence, struggling between hope and doubt, 
and only strengthened for the future by the pure, sweet faith 
which grew out of their conflict. I look back upon that scene, 
I recall tha^ glance, with a sinking of the heart which is full of 
terror and terrible reproach. Ah ! then, then, I had no fear, 
no thought, that I should see that look, and others, more sad, 
more imploring still, and see them without a corresponding 
raith and love ! I little knew, in that brief, blessed hour, how 
lapidly the olindness of the heart comes on, even as the scale 
over tkf eye? — but such a scale as no surgeon’s knife can cut 
away. 


BAFFLED FURY. 


109 


CHAPTER XIII. 

BAFFLED FURY. 

In the first gush of my happiness — the ceremony being com- 
pleted, and the possession of my treasure certain — I had en- 
tirely forgotten my Kentucky friend, whom I had locked up, in 
confidential tete-d-tete with madam, my exemplary mother-in- 
law. He was a fellow with a strong dash of humor, and could 
not resist the impulse to amuse himself at the expense of the 
lady, by making an admirable scene of the proceeding. He 
began the ^business by stating that he. had, heard she had sev-. 
eral negroes whom she wished to ^ell — that he was anxious to 
buy — he did not care how many, and would give the very best 
prices of any trader in the market. At his desire, all were 
summoned in attendance — some three or four in number, that 
she had to dispose of — all but the worthy Peter, who, under 
existing circumstances, was quite too necessary to my proceed- 
ings to be dispensed with. These were all carefully examined 
by the trader. They were asked their ages, their names^ their 
qualities ; whether they were willing to go to Kentucky, the 
paradise of the western Indian, and so forth — all those ques- 
tions which, in ordinary cases, it is the custom of the purchaser 
to ask. They were then dismissed, and the Kentuckian next 
discussed with the lady the subject of prices. But let the wor- 
thy fellow speak for himself : — 

“ I was so cursed anxious,” he said, “ to know whether you 
had got off and in safety, for I was beginning to get monstrous 
tired of the old cat, that I jumped up every now and then to 
take a peep out of the front window^ I made an excuse to spit 
on such occasions — though sometimes I forgot to do so — and 
then I would go back and begin again, with something about 
the bargain and the terms, and whether the negroes were hon- 
est, and sound, and all that. Well, though I looked out as often 


110 / CONFESSION, OH THE BLIND HEART. 

as I wel/could with civility, I saw nothing of you, and began 
to fear that something had happened to unsettle the whole plan ; 
but, after a while, I saw Peter, with his mouth drawn back and 
hooked into his ears, with his white teeth glimmering like 
so manr^ slips of moonshine in a dark night, and I then con- 
cludec^ that all was as it should be. But seeing me look out so 
earnfStly and often, the good lady at length said : — 

1 suppose, sir, your horses are in waiting. Perhaps you’d 
likfe to have a servant to mind them.’ 

“ ‘ No, ma’am, I’m obliged to you ; but I left the hotel on 
foot.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ said she, ‘ but I thought it might he your horses, 
seeing you so often look out.’ • 

“ I could scarcely keep in my laughter. It did burst out into 
a sort of chuckle; and, as you were then safe — I knew that 
from Peter’s jaws — I determined to have my own fun out of 
the old woman. So.I said — pretty much in this sort^f fashion, 
for I longed to worry her, and knew just how it could be done 
handsomest — I said : — 

“ ‘The truth is, ma’am — pardon me for the slight — but re- 
ally I was quite interested — struck, as I may say, by a very 
suspicious transaction that met my eyes a while ago, when I 
first got up to spit from the window.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, indeed, sir ! and pray, if I may ask, what was it you 
saw V 

“ ‘ Really very curious ; but getting up to spit, and looking 
out before I did so — necessary caution, ma’am — some persons 
might be just under the window, you know — ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, yes.’ The old creature began to look and talk 
mighty esSger. 

“ ‘ An ugly habit, ma’am — that of spitting. We Kentucki- 
ans carry*it to great excess. Foreigners, I’m told, count it mon- 
strous vulgar — effect of tobacco-chewing, ma’am — a deuced bad 
habit, I grant you, but ’tis a habit, and there’s no leaving it off, 
even if we would. I don’t think Kentuckians, as a people, a 
bit more vulgar than English, or French, or Turks, or any other 
respectable people of other countries.’ 

“‘No, sir, certainly not; but the transaction — what you 


BAlPPLED FURY. 


Ill 


“ ‘ Ah, yes ! beg pardon ; but, as I was sayi jg, something re- 
ally quite suspicious ! Just as I was about to spit, when I went 
to the window, some ten minutes ago — perhaps you did not 
observe, but I did not spit. Good reason for it, ma’am — might 
have done mischief.* 

“ ‘ How, sir V 

“ ‘ Ah, that brings me to the question I want to ask : any 
handsome young ladies living about here, ma’am? — here, in 
your neighborhood V 

“ ‘ Why, yes, sir,’ answered the old tabby, with something 
like surprise; ‘there’s several — there’s the Masons, just oppo- 
site ; the Bagbys, next door to them below, and Mr. Wilford’s 
daughter : all of them would be considered pretty by some per- 
! sons. On the same side with us, there’s Mrs. Freeman and her 
two daughters, but the widow is accounted by many the young- 
est looking and prettiest of the whole, though, to my thinking, 
that’s saying precious little for any. Next door to us is a Mr. 
and Mrs. Gibbs, who have a daughter, and she is rather pretty, 
! but I don’t know much about them. It might be a mother’s 
j vanity, sir, but I think I may be proud of having a daughter 

I myself, who is about as pretty as any of the best among them ; 

and that’s saying a great deal less for her than might be said.’ 

“‘Ah, indeed — you a daughter, ma’am ? But she is not 
grown-up, of course — a mere child?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I beg your parJon, sir,’ said the old creature, tickled 
up to the eyes, and looking at me with the sweetest smiles ; 
‘though it may surprise you very much, she is not only no 
child, but a woman grown ; and, what’s more, I think she will 
be made a wife this very night.’ 

“ ‘ Egad, then I suspect she’s not the only one that’s about to 
be made a wife of. I suspect some one of these young ladies, 
your neighbors, will be very soon in the same condition.’ 

“‘Indeed, sir — pray, who? — how do you know?’ and the 
old tabby edged herself along the sofa until she almost got jam 
up beside me. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘ I don’t know exactly, but I’m deucedly 
suspicious of it, and, more than that, there’s some underhand 
work going on.’ 

“ This made her more curious than ever j and her hands and 


112 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


feet, and indeed her whole body, got such a fidgeting, that I 
fancied she began to think of getting St. Vitus for a bedfellow. 
Her eagerness made her ask me two or three times what made 
me think so ; and, seeing her anxiety, I purposely delayed in 
order to worry her. I wished to see how far I could run her 
up. When I did begin to explain, I went to work in a round- 
about way enough — something thus, old Kentuck — as I began : 
‘Well, ma’am, this tobacco-chewing, as I said before, carried 
me, as you witnessed, constantly to the window. I don’t know 
that I chew more than many others, but I know I chew too 
much for my good, and for decency, too, ma’am.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, yes ; but the young lady, and — ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, yes, ma’am. Well, then, going to the window once, 
twice, or thrice, I could not help but see a young'man standing 
beneath it, evidently in waiting — very earnes*t, very watchful 
— seemingly very much interested and anxious, as if waiting 
for somebody.’ 

“ ‘ Is it possible?’ whispered the tabby, full of expectation. 

“ ‘ Yes, very possible, ma’am — very true. There he stood; 
I could even hear his deep-drawn sighs — deep, long, as if from 
the very bottom of his heart.’ 

“ ‘ Was he so very near, sir V 

“ ‘ Just und3r the window — going to and fro — very anxious. 
I was almost afraid 1 had spit on him, he looked up so hard — 
60 — ’ 

“ ‘What, sir, up at you? at — at my windows, sir?’ 

“ ‘ Not exactly, ma’am, that was only my notion, for I thought 
I might have spit upon him, and so wakened his anger ; but, in- 
deed, he looked all about him, as, indeed, it was natural that he 
should, you know, if he meditated anything that wa’n’t exactly 
right. There was a carriage in waiting — a close carriage — not 
a hundred yards below% and — ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, sir, do tell me what sort of a looking young gentleman 
was it — eh ?’ 

“ ‘ Good-looking fellow enough, ma’am — rather tall, slender- 
ish, but not so slender — wore a black frock.’ By this time the 
old creature was up at the window — her long, skinny neck 
stretched out as far as it could go. 

“‘Ah!’ said I, ‘ma'am, you’re quite too late, if you expec< 


BAPFLKD FURY. 113 

to see tlie sport. They’re off ; I saw the last of them when 1 
took my last spit from the window. They were then — ’ 

“ ‘But, sir, did he — did you say that this person — the per- 
son you spit on — carried a young lady away with him V 

“ ‘ You mistake me, ma’am — ’ 

“ ‘Ah !’ — she drew a mighty long breath as if relieved. 

“ ‘ I did 7?ot spit upon him ; I only came near doing it once 
or twice. If I hadn’t looked, I should very probably have 
divided my quid pretty equally between both of them.’ 

“ ‘ Both ! both !’ she almost screamed. ‘ Did she go with him, 
then ? — was there in truth a young woman?’ 

“ You never saw a creature in such a tearing fidget. Her 
long nose was nearly stuck into my face, and both her hands, 
all claws extended, seemed ready for my cheeks. I felt a little 
ticklish, I assure you ; but I kept up my courage, determined to 
see the game out, and answered very deliberately, after I had 
put a fresh quid into my jaws : — 

“ ‘ Ay, that she did, ma’am, and seemed deuced glad to go, 
as was natural enough. A mighty pretty girl she was, too ; 
rather thin, but pretty enough to tempt a clever fellow to do 
anything. I reckon they’re nigh on to being man and wife by 
this time, let the old people say what they will.’ 

“ But the old put didn’t wait to hear me say all this. Before 
the words were well out of my mouth, she gave a bounce, to the 
bell-rope first — I thought she’d ha’ jerked it to pieces — and 
then to the head of the stairs. 

“ ‘ Excuse me for a moment, sir, if you please,’ she said, in a 
considerable fidget. 

“ ‘ Certainly, ma’am,’ says I, with a great Kentucky sort of 
bow and natural civility ; and then I could hear her squalling 
from the head of the stairs, and at the top of her voice, ‘ Julia ! 
Julia! Julia!’ — but there was no answer from Julia. Then 
came the servants ; then came the outcry ; then she bounced 
back into the parlor, and blazed out at me for not telling her at 
once that it was her daughter who had been carried off, with- 
out making so long a story of it, and putting in so much talk 
about tobacco. 

“ ‘ Lord bless you, my dear woman !’ says T, Innocent enough, 

‘ was that pretty girl your daughter ? That accounts foi the 


114 CONFESSION, oil THE bUnD HEARI'. 

fellow looking up at the window so often ; and I to fancy that 
it was all because I might have given him a quid !’ 

“ ‘ You must have seen her then /’ 

“ ‘ Well, ma’am,’ said I, ‘ I must come again about the negroes. 
1 see you’ve got your hands full.’ 

“ And, with that, I pushed down stairs, while she blazed out 
at her husband, whom she called an old fool ; and me, whom 
she called a young one ; and the negroes, whom she ordered to 
fly in a hundred ways in the same breath ; and, to make matters 
worse, she seized her hat and shawl, and bounced down the 
steps after me. Here we were in a fix again, that made her a 
hundred times more furious. The street-door was locked on the 
outside, and the key gone, and I fastened up w ith the old mad 
tabby. I tried to stand it while the servants w'ere belaboring 
to break open, but the storm was too heavy, and, raising a sash, 
I went through : and, in good faith, I believe she bounced 
through after me ; for, when I got fairly into the street and 
looked round, there she went, bounce, flounce, pell-mell, all in 
a rage, steam up, puflSng like a porpoise — though, thank Jupi- 
ter ! she took another course from myself. I was glad to get 
out of her clutches, I assure you.” 

Such was Kingsley’s account of his expedition, told in his 
particular manner ; and endued wdth the dramatic vitality wdiich 
he was w^ell able to give it, it was inimitable. It needs but a 
few w^ords to finish it. Mrs. Clifford, with unerring instinct, 
made her way to the house of that friendly lady who had as- 
sisted our proceedings. But she came too late for anything but 
abuse. Julia was irrevocably mine. Bitter w'as the clamor 
which, in our chamber, assailed us from below. 

“ Oh, Edward, how shall I meet her ?” was the convulsive 
speech of Julia, as she heard the fearful sounds of her mother’s 
voice — a voice never very musical, and wdiich now^ stimulated 
by unmeasured rage — the rage of a baffled and wicked woman 
— poured forth a torrent of screams rather than of human ac- 
cents. We soon heard the rush of the torrent up stairs, and in 
the direction of our chamber. 

“ Fear nothing, Julia ; her power over you is now at an end 
You are now mine — mine only — mine irrevocably !” 

'‘Ah, she is still my mother !” gasped the lovely trembler in 


BAFFLED FURY. 


115 

my arms, A moment more, and the old lady was battering at 
the door. I had locked it within. Her voice, husky hut sub 
dued, now called to her daughter — 

“Julia! Julia! Julia! — come out!” 

“ Who is there ? what do you Avant I demanded. I Avaa 
disposed to keep her out, but Julia implored me to open the 
door. She had really no strength to reply to the summons of 
the enraged woman ; and her entreaty to me was expressed in 
a whisper which scarcely filled my own ears. She was weak 
almost to fainting. I trembled lest her weakness, coupled Avith 
her fears, and the stormy scene that I felt might be reasonably 
anticipated, would be too much for her poAvers of endurance. I 
hesitated. She put her hand on my wrist. 

“For my sake, Edward, let her in. Let her see me. We 
will have to meet her, and better now — now, when I feel all 
the solemnity of my neAv position, and aaLUc the pledges I have 
just made are most present to my thoughts. Do not fear for 
me. I am weak and very feeble, but I am resolute. I feel 
that I am not Avrong.” 

She could scarcely gasp out these brief senteyces. I urged 
her not to risk her strength in the intervieAv. 

“ ^ « you love me, do as I beg you,” she replied, with entreat- 
ing earnestness. “ It does not become me to keep my mother, 
under any circumstances, thus waiting at the door, and asking 
entrance.” 

MeanAALile, the clamors of Mrs. Clifford were continued. Ju- 
lia’s aunt was there also, and the controversy Avas hot and heaAy 
betAveen them. Annoyed as I was, and apprehensive for Julia. 
I yet could not forbear laughing at the ludicrousness of my po- 
sition and the Avhole scene. I began to think, from the equal 
violence of the tAVO ancient dames Avithout, that they might 
finally get to blows. This Ava.s also the fear of Julia, and an- 
other reason why we should tliroAv open the door. I at length 
did so ; and soon had the doubtful satisfaction of transferring to 
myself all the wrath of the disappointed mother. She rushed 
in, the moment the door turned upon its hinges, almost upsetting 
me in the violence of her onset. Bounding into the apartment 
with a fury that Avas utterly beyond Imr OAvn control, I Avas led 
to fear that she might absolutely inflict violence upon her daugh 


11b CONFESSION, OR THE RLTNH HEART. 

ter, who by this time bad sunk, in equal terror and exhaustion, 
upon a sofa in the remotest corner of the room. I liastily placed 
myself between them, and did not scruple, with extended hands, 
to maintain a safe interval of space between the two. I will 
not attempt to describe the tigress rage or the shrieking violence 
which ensued on the part of this veteran termagant. It was 
only closed at length, when, Julia having fainted under the 
storm, dead to all appearance, I picked up the assailant vi ct 
arjnis, and, in defiance of screams and scratches — for she did 
not spare the use of her talons — resolutely transported her from 
the chamber. 


ONE DEBT PAID. 


117 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ONE DEBT PAID, 

Staggebing forward under this burden — a burden e jually 
active and heavy — who should I encounter at the head of tbe 
stairs, but the liege lord of the lady — my poor imbecile uncle. 
As soon as she beheld him — foaming and almost unintelligi|)le 
in her rage — she screamed for succor — cried “murder” “rape,” 
“robbery,” and heaven knows what besides. A moment be- 
fore, though she scratched and scuffled to the utmost, she had 
not employed her lungs. A momentary imprecation alone had 
broken from her, as it were, perforce and unavoidably. Now, 
nothing could exceed the stentorian tumult which her tonguo 
maintained. She called upon her husband to put me to death — 
to tear me in pieces — to do anything and everything for the pun- 
ishing of so dreadful an offender as myself. In thus command- 
ing him, she did not forbear uttering her owti unmeasured opin- 
ion of the demerits of the man whose performances she required. 

“ If you had the spirit of a man, Clifford — if you were not 
a poor shoat — you’d never have submitted so long as you have 
to this viper’s insolence. And there you stand, doing nothing — 
absolutely still as a stock, though you see him' beating your 
wife. Ah ! you monster ! — you coward! — that I should ever 
have married a man that w^asn’t able to protect me.” 

This is a sufficient sample of her style, and not the w'orst. I 
am constrained to confess that some portions of the good lady’s 
language would better have suited the modes of speech common 
enough among the Grecian housekeepers at the celebration of 
the Eleusinian mysteries. I have omitted not a few of the bad 
words, and forborne the repetition of that voluminous eloquence 
poured out, after the Billingsgate fashion, equally upon myself, 
her daughter, and husband. During the vituperation she stih 
kicked and scuffled; my face suffered, and my eyes narrowly es- 
caped. But I grasped her ftrinly ; and when her husband, my 
worthy uncle, in obedience to her orders, sprang upon me, with 


118 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


tlie bludgeon wliicli he now habitually carried, I confronted him 
with the lusty person of his spouse, and regret to say, that the 
first thwack intended for my shoulders^ descended with some 
considerable emphasis upon hers. This increased her fury, and 
redoubled her screams. But it did not lessen my determination, 
or make me change my mode of proceeding. I resolutely push- 
ed her before me. The husband stood at the head of the stairs 
and my object was to carry her down to the lower story, /riie 
stairs were narrow, and by keeping up a good watch, I contrived 
to force him to give ground, using his spouse as a sort of batter- 
mg-ram — not to perpetrate a pun at tlie expense of the genders 
— which, I happened to know, had always been successful in 
making him give ground on all previous occasions. His habitual 
deference for the dame, assisted me in my purpose. Step by 
step, however, he disputed my advance ; but I wa,s finally suc- 
cessful ; without any injury beyond that which had been inflicted 
by the talons of the fair lady, and perhaps a single and slight 
stroke upon the shoulder from the club of her husband, I suc- 
ceeded inTanding her upon the lower flat in safety. Beyond a 
squeeze or two, which the exigency of the case made something 
more affectionate than any I should have been otherwise pleased 
to bestow upon her, she suffered no hurt at my hands. 

But, though willing to release her, she was not so willing her- 
self to be released. When I set her free, she flew at me with 
cat-like intrepidity ; and I found her a much more difficult cus- 
tomer than her husband. Him I soon baffled. A moment suf- 
ficed to grapple Avith him and wrench the stick from his hands, 
and then, with a moderate exercise of agility, I contrh^ed to 
spring up the staii’Avay which I had just descended, regain the 
chamber,- and secure the door, before they could overtake or annoy 
me with their further movements. My wife’s aunt, meanwhile, 
had been busy with her restoratives. Julia Avas noAV recovering 
from the fainting fit ; and I had the satisfaction of hearing from 
one of the servants that the baffled enemy had gone off in a furj^ 
*hat made their departure seem a flight rather than a mere retreat. 

I should have treated the whole event Avith indifference — their 
rage and their regard equally — but for my suffering and sensitive 
wife; Wronged as she had been, and so persecuted as to render 
all her subsequent conduct justifiable, she yet forgot none of hoj 


ONE i)EBt PAID. 


119 


filial obligations ; and, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, 
I liad already, the veiy day after this conflict, prepared an elab- 
orate and respectful epistle to both “father and mother, when an 
event took place of startling solemnitj’-, which was calculated to 
subdue my anger, and make the feelings of my wife, if possiblej 
more accessible than ever to the influences of fear and sorrow. 
Only three days from our marriage had elapsed, when her father 
was stricken speechless in the street, lie was carried home for 
dead. I have already hinted that, months before, and just after 
the threatened discovery of those fraudulent measures by which 
he lost his fortune, his mind had become singularly enfeebled j 
his memory failing, and all his faculties of judgment — never veiy 
strong — growing capricious, or else obtuse and unobserving. 
These were the symptoms of a rapid physical change, the catas- 
trophe of which was at hand. How far the excitement growing 
out of his daughter’s flight and marriage may have precipitated 
this result, is problematical. It may be said, in this place, that 
my wife’s mother charged it all to my account. I was pronounced 
the murderer of her husband. On this head I did not reproach 
myself. It was necessary, however, that a reconciliation should 
take place between the father and his child. To this I had, of. 
course, no sort of objection. But it will scarce be believed that 
the miserable woman, her mother, opposed herself to their meeting 
with the utmost violence of her character. Nothing but the 
outcry of the family and all its friends — including the excellent 
physician whose secret services had contributed so much toward 
my happiness — compelled her to give Avay, though still un- 
graciously, to the earnest entreaty of her daughter for permission 
to see her father before he died ! and even then, by the death- 
bed of the unhapi)y and almost unconscious man, she recom- 
menced the scene of abuse and bitter reproach, which, however 
ami)le the reader and hearer may have already found it, it 
appears she had left unfinished. It was in the midst of a 
furious tirade, directed against myself, chiefly, and Julia, in part, 
that the spasms of death, un})erceived by the mother, jia.ssed 
over the contracted muscles of the father’s face. The bitter 
speech of the blind woman — blind of heart — was actually fin- 
ished after death had given the final blow to the victim. Of this 
she had no suspicion; until instructed by the piercing shrieks of 
her daughter, who fell swooning u[’on the corse before her. 


120 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HOxNEYMOON PERIOD. 

It whs supposed by Julia and certain of lier friends that an 
event so solemn, so impressive, and so unexpected, as the death 
of Mr. Clifford, would reasonably affect the mind of his widow ; 
and the concessions which I had meditated to address to her- 
self and her late husband were now so varied as to apply solely 
to herself. I took considerable pains in preparing my letter, 
with the view to soften her prejudices and asperities, as well as 
to convince her reason. There was one suggestion which Julia 
was disposed to insist on, to which, however, I was singularly 
averse. In the de.stitution of Mrs. Clifford, her diminished and 
still diminishing resources, not to speak of her loneliness, she 
thought that I ought to tender her a home with us. Had she 
been any other than the captious, cross-grained creature that 
she was — had her misfortunes produced only in part their 
legitimate and desirable effects of subduing her perversity — 
I should have had no sort of objection. But I knew her impe- 
rious and unreasonable nature ; and I may here add, that, by 
this time, I knew something of my own : I was a man of despotic 
character. The constant conflicts which I had had from boy- 
hood, resulting as they had done in my frequent successes and 
final triumph, had, naturally enough, made me dictatorial. San- 
guine in temperament, earnest in character, resolute in impulse, 
I was necessarily arbitrary in mood. It was not likely that 
Mrs. Clifford would forget her waywardnesses, and it was just 
as unreasonable that I should submit to her insolences. Be 
sides, one’s home ought to be a very sacred place. It is neces- 
sary that the peace there should comj)en.satc and console for the 
strifes without. To hope for this in any household where there 
is more than one master, would be worse than idle. Nay, even 
if there were peace, the chances* are still great that there would 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


121 


DC some lack of propriety. Domestic regulations would become 
inutile. Cliildren and servants would equally fail of duty and 
improvement under conflicting authorities ; and all tlie sweet 
social harmonies of family would be jarred away by misunder- 
standings if not bickerings, leading to coldness, suspicion, and 
irremediable j,ealousies. These things seemed to threaten mo 
from the first moment when Julia submitted to me her desire 
that her mother should be invited to take up her abode with us. 
I reasoned with her against it ; suggested all the grounds of ob- 
jection which I really felt ; and reviewed at length the long his- 
tory of our connection from my childhood up, which had been 
distinguished by her constant hostility and hate. “ How,” I 
asked, “ can it be hoped that there will be any change for the 
better now 1 She is the same woman, I the same man ! It is 
not reasonable to think that the result of our reunion will be 
other than it has been.” But Julia implored. 

“ I know what you say is reasonable — is just; but, dear Ed- 
ward, she is my mother, and she is alone.” 

I yielded to her Avishes. Could I else ? My.letter to her 
mother concluded Avith a respectful entreaty that she would take 
apartments in our dwelling, and a chair at our table, and lessen, 
to this extent, the expenses of her own establishment. 

“What!” exclaimed the frenzied woman to Julia’s aunt, to 
whom the charge of presenting the communication was commit- 
ted — “what! eat the bread of that insolent and ungrateful 
wretch 1 Never ! nevmr !” 

She flung the epistle from her with disdain ; and, to confess 
a truth, though, on Julia’s account, I should have Avished a 
reconciliation, I was by no means sorry, on my own, that such 
Avas her ultimatum. I gave myself little further concern about 
this foolish person, and Avas happy to see that in a short time 
my wife appeared to recover from the sadness and stupor Avhich 
the death of her father and the temper of her mother had natu- 
rally induced. The truth is, she had, for so long a period pre- 
viously to her marriage, suffered from the persecutions of the 
latter, and moaned over the shame and imbecility of the former, 
that her present situation was one of great relief, and, for a 
while, of comparative happiness. 

- We lived in a pleasant cottage in the suburbs. A broad and 

G 


l22 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

placid lake spread out before our dwelling ; and its tiny billowS; 
under the pressure of tlie sweet southwestern breezes, beat al- 
most against our very doors. Green and shady groves envi- 
roned us on three sides', and sheltered us from the intrusive 
gaze of the highway ; and never was a brighter collection of 
flowers and blossoms clustered around any habitation of hope 
and happiness before. I rented the cottage on moderate terms, 
and furnished it neatly, but simply, as became my resources. 

All things considered, the prospect was fair and promising be- 
fore us. Julia had few toils, and ample leisure for painting and 
music, for both of which she had considerable taste ; for the for- 
mer art, in particular, she possessed no small talent. 

Our city, indeed, seemed one peculiarly calculated for these 
arts. Our sky was blue — deeply, beautifully blue ; our climate 
mild and delightful. Our people were singularly endowed with 
the genius for graceful and felicitous performances. Music was 
an ordinary attribute of the great mass; and in no community 
under the sun was there such an overflow of talent in painting 
and sculpture. It was the grand error of our wise heads to 
fancy that our city could be made one of great trade ; and, in a 
vain struggle to give it some commercial superiority over its ^ 
neighbor communities, the wealth of the people was thrown j 
away upon projects that yielded nothing ; and the arts were I 
left neglected in a region which might have been made — and ' 
might still be made — if not exclusively, at least pre-eminently 
their own. The ordinary look of the women was beauty, the i 
ordinary accent was sweetness. The soft moonlight evenings * 
were rendered doubly harmonious by the tender tinkling of the : 
wandering guitar, or the tones of the plaintive flute; while, 
from every third dwelling, rose the more stately but scarcely ^ 
sweeter melodies stricken by pliant fingers from the yielding ' 
soul of the divine piano. The tastes even of the mechanic were 
refined by this language, the purest in which passion evei 
speaks; and an ambition — the result of the highest tone of : 
aristocratic influence upon society — prompted his desires to • 
purposes and a position to which in other regions he is not often j 
permitted to aspire. These influences were assisted by the ■ 
peculiar location of our city— ^ by its suburban freedom from all J 
closeness ; its iiiniitlierable gai^dciis, the appanage of e\cry Jj 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


125 


household ; its piazzas, verandahs, porches ; its broad and min- 
strel-wooing rivers; and the majestic and evergreen forests, 
which grew and gathered around us on every hand. If ever 
there was a city intended by nature more particularly than an- 
other for the abodes and the offices of art, it was ours. It will 
become so yet : the mean, money-loving soul of trade can not 
always keep it from its destinies. We may never see it in our 
day ; but so surely as we live, and as it shall live, will it be- 
come an Athens in our land — a city of empire by the sea, 
renowned for genius and taste — and the chosen retreat of 
muses, younger and more vigorous, and not less lovely, than 
the old ! 

J ulia was in a very high degree impregnated with the taste 
and desire for art which seemed so generally the characteristic 
of our people. I speak not now of the degree of skill which 
she possessed. Her teacher was a foreigner, and a mere me- 
chanic ; but, while he taught her only the ordinary laws of 
painting, her natural endowment wrought more actively in favor 
of her performances. She soon discovered how much she could 
learn from the little which her teacher knew ; and when she 
made this 4iscovery, she ceased to have any use for his assist- 
ance. Books, the study of the old masters, and such of the new 
as were available to her, served her infinitely more in the pros- 
ecution of her efforts ; and these I stimulated by all means in 
my power : for I esteemed her natural endowments to be very 
high, and very well knew how usual it is for young ladies, after 
marriage, to give up those tastes and accomplishments which 
had distinguished and heightened their previous charms. It 
was quite enough that I admired the art, and tasked her to its 
pursuit, to make her cling to it with alacrity and love. We 
wandered together early in the morning and at the coming on 
of evening, over all the sweet, enticing scenes which were fre- 
quent in our suburbs. Environed by two rivers, wide and clear, 
with deep forests beyond — a broad bay opening upon the sea 
in front — lovely islands of gleaming sand, strewn at pleasant 
intervals, seeming, beneath the transparent moonlight, the cho- 
sen places of retreat for naiads from the deep and fairies from 
the grove — there was no lack of objects to delight the eye and 
woo the pencil to its performances. Besides, never was blue 


124 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

sky, and gold-and-pnrple. sunset, more frequent, more rich, more 
shifting in its shapes and colors, from beauty to superior beauty, 
than in our latitude. The eye naturally turned up to it with a 
sense of hunger ; the mind naturally felt the wish to record such 
hues and aspects for the use of venerating love ; and the eager 
spirit, beginning to fancy the vision wrought according to its 
own involuntary wish, seemed spontaneously to cry aloud, in 
the language of the artist, on whom the consciousness of genius 
was breaking with a sun-burst for the first time, “ I, too, am a 
])ainter !” 

Julia’s studio was soon full of beginnings. Fragmentary land- 
scapes were all about her. Like most southrons, she did not 
like to finish. There is an impatience of toil — of its duration 
at least — in the southern mind, which leaves it too frequently 
unperforming. This is a natural characteristic of an excitable 
people. People easily moved are always easily diverted from 
their objects. People of very vivid fancy are also very capri- 
cious. There is yet another cause for the non-performance of 
the southern mind — its fastidiousness. In a high state of social 
refinement, the standards of taste become so very exacting, that 
the mind prefers not to attempt, rather than to offend that criti- 
cal judgment which it feels to be equally active in its analysis 
and rigid in its requisitions. Genius and ambition must be in- 
dependent of such restraints. “ Be bold, be bold, be bold !” is 
the language of encouragement in Spenser ; and when he says, 
at the end, “ Be not too bold,” we are to consider the qualifica- 
tion as simply a quiet caution not to allow proper courage to 
rush into rashness and insane license. The genius that suffers 
itself to be fettered by the 'precise^ will perhaps learn how to 
polish marble, but will never make it live, and will certainly 
never live very long itself ! 

With books and music, painting and flowers, we passed the 
happy moments of the honeymoon. I yielded as little of my- 
self and my mind to my office and clients, in that period, as I 
possibly could. My cottage was my paradise. My habits, as 
might be inferred from my history, were singularly domestic. 
Doomed, as I had been, from my earliest years, to know neither 
friends nor parents ; isolated, in my infancy, from all those ten- 
der ties which impress upon the heart, for all succeeding years, 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


125 


tokens of the most endearing affection ; denied the smiles of 
those who yet filled my constant sight — my life was a long 
yearning for things of love — for things to love! While the 
struggle- continued between Julia’s parents and myself, though 
confiding in her love, I had yet no confidence in my own hope 
to realize and to secure it. Now that it was mine — mine, at 
last — I grew uxorious in its contemplation. Like the miser, I 
had my treasure at home, and I hastened home to survey it 
with precisely the same doubts, and hopes, and fears, which the 
disease of avarice prompts in the unhappy heart of its victim 
To this disease, in chief, I have to attribute all my future sor 
rows ; but the time is not yet for that. It is my joys now that 
I have to contemplate and describe. How I dwelt, and how I 
dreamed I how I seemed to tread on air, in the unaccustomed 
fullness of my spirit ! how my whole soul, given up to the one 
pursuit, I fondly fancied had secured its object I I fancied — 
nay, for the time, I was happy ! Surely, I was happy I 


126 


C0NF1-]SSI0N, ori THE BLIND HEART. 


OflAPl^ER XVI. 

THE HAPPY SEASON. 

SuiiELY, 1 then was happy ! I can not deceive myself as tc 
the character of those brief Eden moments of security and peace. 
Even now, lone as I appear in the sight of others — degraded 
as I feel myself — even now I look back on our low white cot- 
tage, by the shores of that placid lake — its little palings gleam- 
ing sweetly through its dense green foliage — recall those happy, 
halcyon days, and feel that we both, for the time, had attained 
the secret — the secret worth all the rest — of an enjoyment 
actually felt, and quite as full, flush, and satisfactory, as it had 
seemed in the perspective. Possession had taken nothing of 
the gusto from hope. Truth had not impaired a single beauty 
of the ideal. I looked in Julia’s face at morning when I awa- 
kened, and her loveliness did not fade. My lips, that drank 
sweetness from hers, did not cease to believe the sweetness to 
be there — as pure, as warm, as full of richness, as when I hac 
only dreamed of their perfections. Our days and nights were 
pure, and gentle, and fond. One twenty-four hours shall speak 
for all. 

When we rose at morning, we prepared for a ramble, either 
into the woods, or along the banks of the lovely river that lay 
west of, and at a short distance only from, our dwelling. There, 
wandering, as the sun rose, we imparted to each other’s eyes 
the several objects of beauty which his rising glance betrayed. 
Sometimes we sat beneath a tree, while she hurriedly sketched 
a clump of woods, the winding turn of the shore, its occasional 
crescent form or abrupt headland, as they severally appeared 
in a new light, and at a happy moment of time, beneath our 
vision. The songs of pleasant birds allured us on ; the sweet 
scent of pines and myrtle refreshed us ; and a gay, wholesome, 
hearty spirit was awakened in our mutual bosoms, as thus, dsy 


THE HAPPY SEASON. 


127 


after day, while, like the diy, our hearts were in their first 
youth, we resorted to the ever- fresh mansions of the sovereign 
Nature. This habit produces purity of feeling, and continues 
the habit in its earliest simplicity. The childlike laws which 
it encourages and strengthens are those which virtue most loves, 
and which strained forms of society are the first to overthrow. 
The pure tastes of youth are those which are always most dear 
to humanity ; and love is easy of access, and peace not often a 
stranger to the mind, where these tastes preserve their ascen- 
dency. 

My profession was something at variance with these tastes 
and feelings. The very idea of law, which presupposes the 
frequent occurrence of injustice, engenders, by its practice, a 
habit of suspicion. To throw doubt upon the fact, and defeat 
and prevent convictions of the probable, are habits which law- 
yers soon acquire. This is natural from the daily encounter 
with bad and striving men — men who employ the law as an 
instrument by which to evade right, or inflict wrong; and, this 
apart, the acute mind loves, for its own sake, the very exercise 
of doubt, by which ingenuity is put in practice, and an adroit 
discrimination kept constantly at work. 

I was saved, however, from something of this danger. The 
injustice which I had been subjected to, in my own boyhood, 
had filled me with the keenest love for the right. The idea of 
injustice aroused my sternest feelings of resistance. I had 
adopted the law as a profession with something of a patriotic 
feeling. I felt that I could make it an instrument for putting 
down the oppressor, the wrong-doer — for asserting right, and 
maintaining innocence ! I had my admiration, too, at that 
period, of that logical astuteness, that wonderful tenacity of 
hold and pursuit, and discrimination of attribute and subject, 
which distinguish this profession beyond all others, and seem 
to confirm the assumption made in its behalf, by which it has 
been declared the perfection of human reason. It will not be 
subtracting anything from this estimate, if I express my con- 
viction, founded upon my own experience, that, though such 
may be the character of the law as an abstract science, it de- 
serves no such encomium as it is ordinarily practised. Lawyers 
ar6 too commonly profound only in the technicalities of the 


128 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


profession ; and a very keen study and acquaintance with these 
— certainly a too great reliance upon them, and upon the dicta 
of other lawyers — leads to a dreadful departure from elemen- 
tary principles, and a most woful disregard, if not ignorance, of 
those profounder sources of knowledge without which laws mul- 
tiply at the expense of reason, and not in support of it ; and 
lawyers may he compared to those ignorant captains to whom 
good ships are intrusted, who rely upon continual sounding to 
grope their way along the accustomed shores. Let them once 
leave the shores, and get beyond the reach of their plummets, 
and the good ship must owe its safety to fortune and the favor 
of the winds, for further skill is none. 

I did not find the practice of the law affect my taste for do- 
mestic pleasures ; on the contrary, it stimulated and preserved 
them. After toiling a whole morning in the courts, it was a 
sweet reprieve to be allowed to hurry ofiP to my quiet cottage, 
and hear the one dear voice of my household, and examine the 
quiet pictures. These never stunned me with clamors ; I was 
never pestered by them to determine the meum el tuum between 
noisy disputants, neither of whom is exactly right. There, 
my eye could repose on the sweetest scenes — scenes of beauty 
and freshness — the shady verdure of the woods, the rich va- 
riety of flowers, and pure, calm, transparent waters, hallowed 
by the meek glances of the matron moon. No creature could 
have been more gentle than my wife. She met me with a com- 
posed smile, equally bright and meek. I never heard a com- 
plaint from her lips. The evils of which other men complain 
— the complaints about servants, scoldings about delay or din- 
ner — never reached my ears. The kindest solicitude that, in 
my fatigue, or amid the toils of a business of which wives can 
know little, and for which they make too little allowance, there 
should be nothing at home to make me irritable or give me dis- 
quiet, distinguished equally her sense and her affection. If it 
became her duty to communicate any unpleasant intelligence — 
any tidings which might awaken anger or impatience — she 
carefully waited for the proper time, when the excitement of 
my blood was overcome, and repose of blood and brain had nat- 
urally brought about a kindred composure of mind. 

Our afternoons were usually spent in the shade of the garden 


THE HAPPY SEASON. 


129 


or piazza. Sometimes, I sat by her while she was sketching. 
At others, she helped me to dress and train my garden-vines. 
Now and then we renewed our rambles of the morning, heed- 
fully observing the different aspects of the same scenes and 
objeci«, which had then delighted us, under the mellowing 
smiles of the sun at its decline. With books, music, and chess, 
our evenings passed away without our consciousness ; and day 
melted into night, and night departed and gave place to the 
new-born day, as quietly as if life had, in truth, become to us a 
great instrument of harmony, which bore us over the smooth 
seas of Time, to the gentle beating of fairy and unseen min- 
strelsy. Truly, then, we were two happy children. The older 
children of this world, stimulated by stronger tastes and more 
lofty indulgences, may smile at the infantile simplicity of such 
resources and modes of enjoyment. They were childish, but 
perhaps not the less wise for that. Infancy lies very near to 
heaven. Childhood is a not unfit study for angels ; and happy 
were it for us could we maintain the hearts and the hopes of that 
innocent period for a longer day within our bosoms. In our 
world we grow too fast, too presumptuously. We live on too 
rich food, moral and intellectual. The artifices of our tastes 
prove most fatally the decline of our reason. But, for us — we 
two linked hearts, so segregated from all beside — we certainly 
lived the lives of children for a while. But we were not to 
live thus always. In some worldly respects, I was still a child : 
I cared little for its pomps, its small honors, its puny efforts, its 
tinselly displays. But I had vices of mind — vices of my own 
— sufficient to embitter the social world where all seems now 
so. sweet — where all, in truth, was sweet, and pure, and worthy 

and which might, under other circumstances, have been kept 

so to the last. I am now to describe a change ! 

6 * 


130 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 

Heretofore, I have spoken of the blind hearts of others - 
of Mr. Clifford and his wilful wife — I have yet said little to 
show the blindness of my OAvn. This task is now before me, 
and, with whatever reluctance, the exhibition shall resolutely 
he made. I have described a couple newly Aved — eminently 
happy — blessed Avith tolerable independence — resources from 
without and within — dwelling in the smiles of Heaven, and 
not uncheered by the friendly countenance of man. I am to 
display the cloud, which hangs small at first, a mere speck, but 
which is to grow to a gloomy. tempest that is to swallow up 
the loveliness of the sky, and blacken with gloom and sorrow 
the fairest aspects of the earth. I am to show the worm in the 
bud which is to bring blight — the serpent in the garden Avhich 
is to spoil the Eden. Wo, beyond all other woes, that this ser- 
pent should be engendered in one’s OAvn heart, producing its 
blindness, and finally working its bane ! Yet, so it is ! The 
story is a painful one to tell ;• the task is one of self-humiliation. 
But the truth may inform others — may Avarn, may strengthen, 
may save — before their hearts shall be utterly given up to that 
blindness which must end in utter desperation and irretrievable 
overthrow. 

If the reader has not been utterly unmindful of certain moral 
suggestions which have been thrown out passingly in my pre- 
vious narrative, he will have seen that, constitutionally, I am 
of an ardent, impetuous temper — an active mind, ready, ear- 
nest, impatient of control — seeking the difficult for its own 
Bake, and delighting in the conquest Avhich is unexpected Dy 
others. 

Such a liatUte is usually frank and generous It believes in 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 


131 


the affections — it depends npon them. It freely gives its own, 
but challenges the equally free and spontaneous gift of yours 
in return. It has little faith in the things which fill the hearts 
of the mere worldlings. Worldly honors may delight it, hut 
not worldly toys. It has no veneration for gewgaws. The 
shows of furniture and of dress it despises. The gorgeous equi- 
page is an encumbrance to it; the imposing jewel it would not 
wear, lest it mjght subtract something from that homage which 
it prefers should be paid to the wearer. It is all selfish — 
thoroughly selfish — but not after the world’s fashion of selfish- 
ness. It hoards nothing, and gives quite as much as it asks. 
What does it ask? What? It asks for love — devoted attach- 
ment ; the homage of the loved one and the friends ; the im- 
plicit confidence of all around it ! Ah ! can anytliing be more 
exacting ? Cruelly exacting, if it be not worthy of that it asks ! 

Imagine such a nature, denied from the beginning ! The 
parents of its youth are gone! — the brother and the sister — 
the father and the friend ! It is destitute, utterly, of these I 
It is also destitute of those resources of fortune which are sup- 
posed to be sufficient to command them. It is thrown upon the 
protection, the charge of strangers. Not strangers — no I From 
strangers, perhaps, but little could be expected. It is thrown 
upon the care of relatives — a father’s brother! Could the tie 
be nearer ? Not well ! But it had been better if strangers had 
been its guardians. Then it might have learned to endure more 
patiently. At least, it would have felt less keenly the pangs 
inflicted by neglect, contumely, injustice. In this situation it 
grows up, like some sapling torn from its parent forest, its 
branches hacked off, its limbs lacerated! It grows up in a 
stranger-soil. The sharp winds assail it from every quarter. 
But still it lives — it grows. It grows wildly, rudely, ungrace- 
fully ; but it is strong and tough, in consequence of its exposure 
and its trials. Its vitality increases with every collision which 
shakes and rends it; until, in the pathetic language of relatives 
unhappily burdened with such encumbrances, “ it seems impos- 
sible to kill it !” 

I will not say that mine tried to kill me, but I do say that 
they took precious little care that I was n^t killed. The effect 
upon my body was good, however — the effect of their indiffer- 


132 


CONFESSION, on THE BLIND HEART. 


ence. This roughening process is a part of physical training 
which very few parents understand. It is essential — should 
be insisted on — but it must not be accompanied with a moral 
roughening, which forces upon the mind of the pupil the con- 
viction that the ordeal is meant for his destruction rather than 
for his good. There will be a recoil of the heart — a cruel 
recoil from the humanities — if such a conviction once fills the 
mind. It was this recoil which I felt ! With '\^rm aflTections 
seeking for objects of love — with feelings of hope and venera- 
tion, imploring for altars to which to attach themselves — I was 
commanded to go alone. The wilderness alone was open to 
me : what wonder if my heart grew wild and capricious even 
as that of the savage who dwells only amid their cheerless re- 
cesses ? With a smile judiciously bestowed — with a kind word, 
a gentle tone, an occasional voice of earnest encouragement — 
my uncle and aunt might have fashioned my heart at their 
pleasure. I should have been as clay in the hands of the pot- 
ter — a pliant willow in the grasp of the careful trainer. A na- 
ture constituted like mine is, of all others, the most flexible ; 
but it is also, of all others, the most resisting and incorrigible. 
Approach it with a judicious regard to its affections, and you 
do with it what you please. Let it biit fancy that it is the vic- 
tim of your injustice, however slight, and the war is an intermi- 
nable one between you ! 

Thus did I learn the first lessons of suspiciousness. They 
attended me to the schoolhouse ; they governed and made me 
watchful there. The schoolhouse, the play-places — the very 
regions of earnest faith and unlimited confidence — produced 
no such effects in me. They might have done so, had I ceased, 
on going to school, to see my relatives any longer. But the 
daily presence of my uncle and aunt, with their system of con- 
tinued injustice, at length rendered my suspicious moods habit- 
ual. I became shy. I approached nobody, or approached them 
with doubt and watchfulness. I learned, at the earliest period, 
to look into character, to analyze conduct, to pry into the mys- 
terious involutions of the working minds around me. I traced, 
or fancied that I traced, the performance to the unexpressed and 
secret motive in whk;h it had its origin. I discovered, or be- 
lieved that I discovered, that the world was divided into ban- 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 


133 


ditti and aypocrites. At that day I made little allowance for 
the existence of that larger class than all, who happen to be the 
victims. Unless this were the larger class, the other two must 
very much and very rapidly diminish. My infant philosophy 
did not carry me very deeply into the recesses of my own heart. 
It was enough that I felt some of its dearest rights to be out- 
raged — I did not care to inquire whether it was altogether 
right itself. 

At length, there was a glimpse of dawn amid all this dark 
ness. The world was not altogether evil. All hearts were not 
shut against me ; and in the sweet smiles of Julia Clifford, iu 
her kind attentions, soothing assurances, and fond entreaties, 
there was opportunity, at last, for my feelings to overflow. 
Like a mountain-stream long pent up, which at length breaks 
through its confinements, my affections. rushed into the grateful 
channel which her pliant heart afforded me. They were wild, 
and strong, and devoted, in proportion to their dong denial and 
restraint. Was it not natural enough that I should, love with 
no ordinary attachment — that my love should be an impetuouk 
torrent — all-devoted — struggling, striving — rushing only in 
the one direction — believing, in truth, that there was noni 
other in the world in which to run 1 

This was a natural consequence of the long sophistication oi 
my feelings. I knew nothing of the world — of society. I had 
shared in none of its trusts ; I had only felt its exactions. Like 
some country-b^, or country -girl, for the first time brought into 
the great world, I surrendered myself wholly to the first grati 
fied impulse. I made no conditions, no qualifications. I set 
all my hopes of heart upon a single cast of the die, and did neJ 
ask what might be the consequences if the throw was unfoi 
tunate. 

One of the good effects of a free communication of the youn^ 
with society is, to lessen the exacting nature of the affectionK 
People who live too much to themselves — in their own centre, 
and for their own single objects — become fastidious to disease. 
They ask too much from their neighbors. Willing to surrendei 
their own affections at a glance, they fancy the world wantinjj 
in sensibility when they find that their readiness in this "especi 
fails to produce a corresponding readiness in others. This is 


134 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

the natural history of that entliusiasni which is thrown back 
upon itself and is chilled by denial. The complaint of coldness 
and selfishness against the world is very common among very 
young or very inexperienced men. The world gets a bad char 
acter, simply because it refuses to lavish its affections along the 
highways — simply because it is cautious in giving its trusts, and 
expects proofs of service and actual sympathy rather than pro- 
fessions. Men like myself, of a warm, impetuous nature, com- 
plain of the heartlessness of mankind. They fancy themselves 
peculiarly the victims of an unkind destiny in this respect ; and 
finally cut their throats in a moment of frenzy, or degenerate 
into a cynicism that delights in contradictions, in sarcasms, in 
self-torture, and the bitterest hostility to their neighbors. 

Society itself is the only and best corrective of this unhappy 
disposition. The first gift" to the young, therefore, should be 
tlie gift of society. By this word society, however, I do not 
mean a set, a clique, a pitiable little circle. Let the sphere of 
movement be sufficiently extended — as large as possible— that 
the means of observation and thought may be sufficiently com- 
prehensive, and no influences from one man or one family shall 
be suffered to give the bias to the immature mind and inexpe- 
rienced judgment. In society like this, the eri'ors, prejudices, 
weaknesses, of one man, are corrected by a totally opposite 
form of clmracter in another. The mind of the youth hesitates. 
Hesitation brings circumspection, watchfulness ; watchfulness, 
discrimination ; discrimination, choice ; and a capacity to choose 
implies the attainment of a certain degree of deliberateness and 
judgment with which the youtli may be permitted to go upon 
his way, supposed to be provided for in the difficult respect of 
being able henceforward to take care of himself. 

I had no society — knew nothing of society — saw it at a 
distance, under suspicious circumstances, and was myself an 
object of its suspicion. Its attractions were desirable to me, 
but seemed unattainable. It required some sacrifices to obtain 
its crdrh, and these sacrifices were the very ones which my 
independence would not allow me to make. My independence 
was my treasure, duly valued in proportion to the constant 
strife by which it was assailed. I had that ! That could not 
be taken from me. That kept me from sinking into the slave 


135 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 

the tool, the sycophant, perhaps the brute ; that prompted me 
to hard study in secret places ; that strengthened my heart, 
when, desolate and striving against necessity, I saw nothing of 
the smiles of society, and felt nothing of the bounties of life. 
Then came my final emancipation — my success — my triumph ! 
My independence was assailed no longer. My talents were no 
longer doubted or denied. My reluctant neighbors sent in their 
adhesion. My uncle forbore his sneers. Lastly, and now — 
Julia was mine ! My heart’s desires were all gratified as com- 
pletely as my mind’s ambition ! 

Was I happy? The inconsiderate mind will suppose this 
very probable — will say, I should be. But evil seeds that are 
planted in the young heart grow up with years — not so rapidly 
or openly as ta offend — and grow to be poisonous weeds with 
maturity. My feelings were too devoted, too concentrative, too 
all-absorbing, to leave me happy, even when they seemed grati- 
fied. The man who has but a single jewel in the world, is very 
apt to labor under a constant apprehension of its loss. He who 
knows but one object of attachment — whose heart’s devotion 
turns evermore but to one star of all the countless thousands in 
the heavens — wo is he, if that star be shrouded from his gaze 
in the sudden overflow of storms! — still more wo is he, when 
that star withdraws, or seems to withdraw, its corresponding 
gaze, or turns it elsewhere upon another worshipper 1 See you 
not the danger which threatened me % See you not that, never 
having been beloved before — 'never having loved but the one 
— I loved that one with all my heart, with all my soul, with all 
my strength ; and required from that one the equal love of heart, 
soul, strength? See you not that my love — linked with impa- 
tient mind, imperious blood, impetuous enthusiasm, and suspi- 
cious fear — was a devotion exacting as the grave — searching 
as fever — as jealous of the thing whose worship it demands as 
God is said to be of ours ? 

Mine was eminently a jealous heart I On this subject of 
jealousy, men rarely judge correctly. They speak of Othello 
as jealous — Othello, one of the least jealous of all human na- 
tures I Jealousy is a quality that needs no cause. It makes 
its own cause. It will find or make occasion for its exercise, 
in the most innocent circumstances. The yroqfs that made 


136 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Otliello wretched and revengeful, were sufficient to have de- 
ceived any jury under the sun. He had proofs. He had a 
strong case to go upon. It would have influenced any judg- 
ment. He did not seek or find these proofs for himself. He 
did not wish to find them. He was slow to see them. His wa-s 
not jealousy. His error was that of pride and self-esteem. He 
was outraged in both. His mistake was in being too prompt of 
action in a case which admitted of deliberation. Tliis was the 
error of a proud man, a soldier, prompt to decide, prompt to act, 
and to punish if necessary. But never was human character 
less marked by a jealous mood than that of Othello. His great 
self-esteem was, of itself, a sufficient security against jealousy 
Mine might have been, had it not been so terribly diseased by 
ill-training. 


I>11ESENTIMENTS. 


137 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

Without apprehending the extent of my own weakness, the 
forms that it would take, or the tyrannies that it would inflict, 
I was still not totally uninformed on the subject of my peculiar 
character ; and, fearing then rather that I might pain my wife 
by some of its wanton demonstrations, than that she would ever 
furnish me with an occasion for them, I took an opportunity, a 
few evenings after our marriage, to suggest to her the necessity 
of regarding my outbreaks with an indulgent eye. 

My heart had been singularly softened by the most touching 
associations. We sat together in our piazza, beneath a flood 
of the richest and balmiest moonlight, screened only from its 
silvery blaze by interposing masses of the woodbine, mingled 
with shoots of oleander, arbor-vitse, and other shrub-trees. The 
mild breath of evening sufficed only to lift quiveringly their 
green leaves and glowing blossoms, to stir the hair upon our 
cheeks, and give to the atmosphere that wooing freshness which 
seems so necessary a concomitant of the moonlight. The hand 
of Julia was in mine. There were few words spoken between 
us ; love has its own sufficing language, and is content with that 
consciousness that all is right which implores no other assu- 
rances. Julia had just risen from the piano : we had both been 
touched with a deeper sense of the thousand harmonies in na- 
ture, by listening to those of Rossini ; and now, gazing upon 
some transparent, fleecy, white clouds that were slowly pressing 
forward in the path of the moonlight, as if in duteous attendance 
upon some maiden queen, our mutual minds were busied in 
framing pictures from the fine yet fantastic forms that glowed, 
gathering on our gaze. I felt the hand of Julia trembling in 


138 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


my own. Her head sank upon my shoulder ; I felt a warm 
drop fall from her eyes upon my hand, and exclaimed — 

“ Julia, you weep ! wherefore do you weep, dear wife I” 

“ With joy, my husband ! My heart is full of joy. I am sc 
happy, I can only weep. Ah ! tears alone speak for the true 
happiness.” 

“ Ah ! would it last, Julia — would it last !” 

Oh, doubt not that it will last. Why should it not ? What 
have we to fear ?” 

Mine was a serious nature. I answered sadly, if not gloom- 
ily:— 

“ Because it is a joy of life that we feel, and it must share 
the vicissitudes of life.” 

“ True, true, hut love is a joy of eternal life as well as of 
this?^’ 

There was a beautiful and consoling truth in this one little 
sentence, which my self-absorption was too great, at tlie time, 
to suffer me to see. Perhaps even she herself was not fully 
conscious of the glorious and pregnant truth which lay at the 
ottom of what she said. Love is^ indeed, not merely a joy of 
eternal life : it is the joy of eternal life ! — its particular joy — 
a dim shadow of which we sometimes feel in this — pure, last- 
ing, comparatively perfect, the more it approaches, in its per- 
formances and its desires, the divine essence, of which it is so 
poor a likeness. We should so live, so love, as to make the one 
run into the other, even as a small river runs down, through a 
customary channel, into the great deeps of the sea. Death 
should be to the affections a mere channel through which they 
pass into a natural, a necessary condition, where their streams 
flow with more freedom, and over which, harmoniously control- 
ling, as powerful, the spirit of love broods ever with “ dovelike 
wings outspread.” I answered, still gloomily, in the customary 
world commonplaces : — 

We must expect the storm. It will not he moonlight al- 
ways. We must look for the cloud. Age, sickness, death! — 
ah ! do these not follow on our footsteps, ever unerring, certain 
always, but so often rapid? Soon, how soon,- they haunt us in 
the happiest moments — they meet us at every corner ! They 
never altogether leave us.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


139 


“Enough, dear husband. D weir not upon these gloomy 

thoughts. Alf! why should you — nowV 

“ I will not ; but there are others, Julia.*^ 

“ What others ? Evils 

“ Sadder evils yet than these.” 

“ Oh, no ! — I hope not.” 

“ Coldness of the once warm heart. The chill of affection in 
the loved one. Estrangement — indifference ! — ah, Julia !” 

“ Impossible, Edward ! This can not, must not he, with us 
You do not think that I could be cold to you; and you — ah ! 
surely you will never cease to love me 1” 

“Never, I trust, never !” 

“No! you must not — shall not. Oh, Edward, let me die 
first before such a fear should fill my breast. You 1 love, as 
none was loved before. Without your love, I am nothing. If 
I can not hang upon you, where can I hang ?” 

And she clung to me with a grasp as if life and death de- 
pended on it, while her sobs, as from a full heart, were insup- 
pressible in spite of all her efforts. 

“ Fear nothing, dearest Julia : do you not believe that I love 
you ?” 

“ Ah ! if I did not, Edward — ” 

“ It is with you always to make me love you. You are as 
completely the mistress of my whole heart as if it had acknowl- 
edged no laws but yours from the beginning.” 

“ What am I to do, dear Edward 

“Forbear — be indulgent— pity me and spare me!” 

“ What mean you, Edward ?” 

“ That heart which is all and only yours, Julia, is yet, I am 
assured, a wilful and an erring heart ! I feel that it is strange, 
wayward, sometimes unjust to others, frequently to itself. It 
is a cross-grained, capricious heart ; you will find its exactions 
irksome.” 

“ Oh, I know it better. You wrong yourself.” 

“No! In the solemn sweetness of this hour, dear Julia — 
now, while all things are sweet to our eyes, all things dear to 
our affections — I feel a chill of doubt and apprehension come 
over me. I am so happy — so unusually happy — that I can 
not feel sure that I am so — that my happiness will continue 


140 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

long. I will try, on my own part, to do nothing by which lo 
risk its loss. But I feel that I am too wilful, at times, to he 
strong in keeping a resolution which is so very necessary to our 
mutual happiness. You must help — you must strengthen me, 
Julia.” 

“ Oh, yes ! but how ? I will do anything — be anything.” 

“ I am capricious, wayward ; at times, full of injustice. Love 
me not less that I am so — that I Sometimes show this wayward- 
ness to you — that I sometimes do injustice to your love. Bear 
with me till the dark mood passes from my heart. I have these 
moods, or have had them, frequently. It may be — I trust it 
will be — that, blessed with your love, and secure in its posses- 
sion, there will be no room in my heart for such ugly feelings. 
But I know not. They sometimes take supreme possession of 
me. They seize upon me in all places. They wrap my spirit 
as in a cloud. I sit apart. I scowl upon those around me. I 
feel moved to say bitter things — to shoot darts in defiance at 
every glance — to envenom every sentence which I speak. 
These are cruel moods. I have striven vainly to shake them 
ofiP. They have grown up with my growth — have shared in 
whatever strength I have ; and, while they embitter my own 
thoughts and happiness, I dread that they will fling their shadow 
upon yours !” 

She replied with gayety, with playfulness, but there was an 
effort in it. 

“ Oh, you make the matter worse than it is. I suppose all 
that troubles you is the blues. But you will never have them 
again. When I see them coming on I will sit by you and sing 
to you. We will come out here and watch the evening ; or you 
shall read to me, or we will ramble in the garden — or — a thou- 
sand things which shall make you forget that there was ever 
such a thing in the world as sorrow.” 

“Dear Julia — will you do this?” 

“More — everything to make you happy.” And she drew 
me closer in her embrace, and her lips with a tremulous, almost 
convulsive sweetness, were pressed upon my forehead ; and cling- 
ing there, oh ! how sweetly did she weep ! 

“ You will tire of my waywardness — of my exactions. Ah 1 
I sliall force you from my side by my caprice.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


141 


“ You can not, Edward, if you would,’* she replied, in mournful 
accents like my own, “ I have no remedy against you ! I have 
nobody now to whom to turn. Have I not driven all from my 
side — all but you 

It was my task to soothe her now. 

“ Nay, Julia, be not you sorrowful. You must continue glad 
and blest, that you may conquer my sullen moods, my dark pre- 
sentiments. When I tell you of the evils of my temper, I tell 
you of occasional clouds only. Heaven forbid that they should 
give an enduring aspect to our heavens ! 

She responded fervently to my ejaculation. I continued: — 

“ I have only sought to prepare you for the management of 
my arbitrary nature, to keep you from suffering too much, and 
sinking beneath its exactions. You will bear with me patiently. 
Forgive me for my evil hours. Wait till the storm has over- 
blown ; and find me your own, then, as much as before j and let 
me feel that you are still mine — that the tempest has not sep- 
arated our little vessels.’’ 

“ Will I not ? Ah ! do not fear for me, Edward. It is a hap- 
piness for me to weep here — here, in your arms. When you 
are sad and moody, I will come as now.” 

“ What if I repulse you ?” 

“ You will not — no, no ! — you will not.” 

“ But if I do ? Suppose ” 

“ Ah ! it is hard to suppose that. But I will not heed it. I 
will come again.” 

“ And again ?” 

“ And again !” 

“ Then you will conquer, Julia. I feel that you will conquer ! 
You will drive out the devils. Surely, then, I shall be incor* 
rigible no longer.” 

Such was my conviction then. I little knew myself. 


142 


CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DISTRUST. 

I LITTLE knew myself ! This knowledge of one^s self is the 
most important knowledge, which very few of us acquire. W e 
seldom look into our own hearts for other objects than those 
which will administer to their petty vanities and passing tri- 
umphs. Could we only look there sometimes for the truth ! 
But we are blind — blind all! In some respects I was. one of 
the blindest ! 

I have given a brief glimpse of our honeymoon. Perhaps, as 
the world goes, the picture is by no means an attractive one. 
Quiet felicity forms but a small item in the sources of happiness, 
now-a-days, among young couples. Mine was sufficiently quiet 
and sufficiently humble. One would suppose that he who builds 
so lowly should have no reason to apprehend the hurricane. 
Social ambition was clearly no object with either of us. We 
sighed neither for the glitter nor the regards of fashionable life. 
Neither upon fine houses, jewels, or equipages, did we set our 
hearts. For the pleasures of the table I had no passion, and 
never was young woman so thoroughly regardless of display as 
Julia Clifford. To be let alone — to be suffered to escape in our 
own way, unharming, unharmed, through the dim avenues of life 
— was assuredly all that we asked from man. Perhaps — I say 
it without cant— this, perhaps, was all that we possibly asked 
from heaven. This was all that I asked, at least, and this was 
much. It was asking what had never yet been accorded to hu- 
manity. In the vain assumption of my heart I thought that my 
demands were moderate. 

Let no man console himself with the idea that his chances of 
success are multiplied in degree with the insignificance, or seem- 
ipg insignificance, pf his aims. Perhaps the very reverse of tli|f 


DISTRUST. 


143 


is the triitL. He who seeks for many objects of enjoyment — 
whose tastes are diversified — has probably the very be&t prospect 
that some of them may be gratified. He is like the merchant 
whose ventures on the sea are divided among many vessels. He 
may lose one or more, yet preserve the main bulk of his fortune 
from the wreck. But he who has only a single bark — one freight- 
age, however costly — whose whole estate is invested in the one 
venture — let him lose that, and all is lost. It does not matter 
that his loss, speaking relatively, is but little. Suppose his 
shipment, in general estimation, to be of small value. The loss 
to him is so much the greater. It was the dearer to him because 
of its insignificance, and being all that he had ; is quite as con- 
clusive of his ruin, as would be the foundering of every vessel 
which the rich merchant sent to sea. 

I was one of these petty traders. I invested my whole capital 
of the affections in one precious jewel. Hid I lose it, or simply 
fear its loss ] Time must show. But, of a truth, I felt as the 
miser feels with his hoarded treasure. While I watched its 
richness and beauty, doubts and dread beset me. Was it safe? 
Everything depended upon its security. Thieves might break 
in and steal. Enough, for the present, to say, that much of my 
security, and of the security of all who, like me, possess a dear 
treasure, depends upon our convictions of security. He who 
apprehends loss, is already robbed. The reality is scarcely 
worse than the hourly anticipation of it. 

My friends naturally became the visiters of my family. Cer- 
tain of the late Mrs. Clifford’s friends were also ours. Our cir- 
cle was sufficiently large for those who already knew how to 
distinguish between the safe pleasures of a small set, and the 
horse-play and heartless enjoyments of fashionable jams. Were 
we permitted in this world to live only for ourselves, v/e should 
have been perfectly gratified had this been even less. W e should 
have been very well- content to have gone on from day to day 
without ever beholding the shadow of a stranger upon out 
threshold. 

This was not permitted, however. W e had a round of con- 
gratulatory visits. Among those who came, the first were the 
old, long-tried friends to whom I cwed so much — the Edgertons. 
Ho family could have been more truly amiable than this ; and 


144 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

William Edgerton was the most amiable of the family. I have 
already said enough to persuade the reader that he was a very 
worthy man. He was more. He was a principled one. Not 
very highly endowed, perhaps, he was yet an intelligent gentle- 
man. None could be more modest in expression — none less ob- 
trusive in deportment — none more generous in service. The 
defects in his character were organic — not moral. He had no 
vices — no vulgarities. But his temperament was an inactive 
one. He was apt to be sluggish, and when excited was nervous. 
He was not irritable, but easily discomposed. His tastes were 
active at the expense of his genius. With ability, he was yet 
unperforming. His standards were morbidly fastidious. Fearing 
to fall below them, he desisted until the moment of action was 
passed for ever ; and the feeling of his own weakness, in this 
respect, made him often sad, but to do him justice, never 
querulous. 

With a person so constituted, the delicate tastes and sensibil- 
ities are like to be indulged in a very high degree. William 
Edgerton loved music and all the quiet arts. Painting was his 
particular delight. He himself sketched with great spirit. Ho 
had the happy eye for the t(mt ensemble in a fine landscape. He 
knew exactly how much to take in and what to leave out, in the 
delineation of a lovely scene. This is a happy talent for dis- 
crimination which the ordinary artist does not possess. It is tho 
capacity which, in the case of orators and poets, informs them of 
the precise moment when they should stop. It is the happiest 
sort of judgment, since, though the artist may be neither very 
excellent in drawing, nor very felicitous in color, it enables 
him always to bestow a certain propriety on his picture which 
compensates, to a certain degree, for inferiority in other respects. 
To know how to grasp objects with spirit, and bestow them 
with a due regard to mutual dependence, is one of the most ex- 
quisite faculties of the landscape-painter. 

William Edgerton, had he been forced by necessity to have 
made the art of painting his profession would have made for him- 
self a reputation of no inferior kind. But amateur art, like ama- 
teur literature, rarely produces any admirable fruits. Complete 
success only attends the devotee to the muse. The worship must 
be exclusive at her altar ; the attendance constant and unremit 


DISTRUST, 


145 


ting, 'riiere'mxi'st be no partial, no divided homage. She is a 
jealous mistress, like all the rest. The lover of her charms, 
if he would secure her smiles, must be a 'professor at hei 
shrine. He can not come and go at pleasure. She resents 
such impertinence by neglect. In plain terms, the fine arts 
must be made a business by those who desire their favor. Like 
law, divinity, physic, they constitute a profession of their own ; 
require the same diligent endeavor, close study, fond pursuit ! 
William Edgerton loved painting, but his business was the law. 
He loved painting too much to love his profession. He gave 
too much of his time to the law to be a successful painter — too 
much time to painting to be a lawyer. He was nothing ! At 
the bar he never rose a step after the first day, when, together, 
we appeared in our mutual maiden case ; and contenting himself 
'with the occasional execution of a landscape, sketchy and bold, 
but without finish, he remained in that nether-land of public con- 
sideration, unable to grasp the certainties of either pursuit at 
which he nevertheless was constantly striving ; striving, how- 
ever, with that qualified degree of effort, which, if it never could 
secure the prize, never could fatigue him much with the endeavor 
to do so. 

He was perfectly delighted when he first saw some of the 
sketches of my wife. He had none of that little jealousy 
which so frequently impairs the temper and the worth of am- 
ateurs. He could admire without prejudice, and praise without 
reserve. He praised them. He evidently admired them. He 
rsought every occasion to see them, and omitted none in which 
ito .declare his opinion of their merits. This, in the first pleasant 
-season of my marriage — when the leav.es were yet green and 
•fresh upon the tree of love — was grateful to my feelings. I 
felt happy to discover that my judgment had not erred in the 
selection of my wife. I stimulated her industry that I might 
listen to my friend’s eulogy. I suggested subjects for her pen- 
cil. I fitted up an apartment especially as a studio for her use. 
J bought her some fine studies, lay figures, heads in marble and 
plaster ; and lavished, in this way, the small surplus fund v/hich 
had heretofore accrued from my professional industry, and that 
fpersonal frugality with which it was accompanied. 

William Edgerton was now for ever at our house. He 

7 


14G 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEAftl'. 


bronglit liis own pictures for the inspection of my wife. Ite 
sometimes painted in her studio. He devised rural and 
aquatic parties with sole reference to . landscape scenery and 
delineation ; and indifferent to the law always, he now aban- 
doned himself almost entirely to those tastes which seemed to 
have acquired of a sudden, the strangest and the strongest 
impulse. 

In this — at least for a considerable space of time — I saw 
nbthing very remarkable. I knew his tastes previously. I had 
seen how little disposed he was to grapple earnestly with the 
duties of his profession ; and did not conceive it surprising, that, 
with family resources sufficient to yield him pecuniary indepen- 
dence, he should surrender himself up to the luxurious influence 
of tastes which were equally lovely in themselves, and natural 
to the first desires of his mind. But when for days he wfts 
missed from his office — when the very hours of morning which 
are most religiously devoted by the profession to its ostensible 
if not earnest pursuit, were yielded up to the easel — and when, 
overlooking the boundaries which, according to the conventional 
usage, made such a course improper, he passed many of these 
mornings at my house, during my absence, I began to entertain 
feelings of disquietude. 

For these I had then no name. The feelings were vague 
and indefinable, but not the less unpleasant. I did not fancy 
for a moment that I was wronged, or likely to be wronged, but 
I felt that he was doing wrong. Then, too, I had my mis- 
givings of what the world would think ! I did not fancy that 
he had any design to wrong me ; but there seemed to me a 
cruel want of considemtion in his conduct. But what annoyed 
me most was, that Julia should receive him at such periods 
He was thoughtless, enthusiastic in art, and thoughtless, per- 
haps, in consequence of his enthusiasm. But I expected that 
she should think for both of us in such a case. Women, alone, 
can be the true guardians of appearances where they themselves 
are concerned ; and it was matter of painful surprise to me that 
she should not have asked herself the question : “ What will 
the neighbors think, during my husband’s absence, to see a 
stranger, a young man, coming to visit me with periodical regu- 
larity, morning after morning?” 




■ 






DISTRUST. 


147 


That she did not ask herself this question should have been 
a very strong argument to show me that her thoughts were all 
innocent. But there is a terrible truth in what Cajsar said of 
his wife’s reputation : “ She must be free from suspicion.” She 
must not only do nothing wrong, but she must not suffer or do 
anything which might incur the suspicion of wrong-doing. 
There is nothing half so sensible to the breath of calumny, as 
female reputation, particularly in regions of high civilization, 
wdiere women are raised to an artificial rank of respect, which 
obviates, in most part, the obligations of their dependence upon 
man, but increases, in due proportion, some of their responsibili- 
ties to him. Poor Julia had no circumspection, because she 
had no feeling of evil. I believe she was purity itself; I 
equally believe that William Edgerton was quite hicapable of 
evil design. But when I came from my office, the first morning 
that he had thus passed at my house in my absence, and she told 
me that he had been there, and how the time had been spent, I 
felt a pang, like a sharp arrow, suddenly rush into my brain. 
Julia had no reserve in telling me this fact. It was a subject she 
seemed pleased to dwell upon. She narrated with the earnest, 
unseeing spirit of a self-satisfied child, the sort of conversation 
which had taken place between them — praised Edgerton’s 
taste, his delicacy, his subdued, persuasive manners, and show- 
ed herself as utterly unsophisticated as any Swiss mountain-girl 
who voluntarily yields the traveller a kiss, and tells her mother of 
it aft^erward. I listened with chilled manners and a troubled mind. 

^‘You are unwell, Edward,” she remarked tenderly, ap- 
proaching and throwing her arms around my neck, as she per 
ceived the gradual gathering of that cloud upon my brows. 

“ Why do you think so, Julia ?” 

“Oh, you look so sad — almost severe, Edward, and your 
words are so few and cold. Have I offended you, dear Edward V‘ 
. I was confused at this direct question. I felt annoyed, 
ashamed. I pleaded headache in justification of my manner — 
it did ache, and my heart, too, but not with the ordinary pang ; 
and I felt a warm blush suffuse my cheek, as I yielded to the 
first suggestion which prompted me to deceive my wife. 

A large leading step was thus taken, and progress was easy 

afterward- 


148 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

Oil ! sweet spirit of confidence, tlioii only true saint, more 
needful than all, to bind the ties of kindred and affection ! why 
art thou so prompt to fly at the approach of thy cold, dark en- 
emy, distrust? Why dost thou yield the field with so little 
struggle? Why, when the things, dearest to thee of all in the 
world’s gift — its most valued treasure, its purest, sweetest, and 
proudest trophies — why, when these are the stake which is to 
reward thy courage, thy adherence, to compensate thee for trial, 
to console thee for loss and outrage — why is it that thou art so 
ready to despond of the cause so dear to thee, and forfeit the 
conquest by which alone thy whole existence is made sweet. 
This is the very suicide of self. Fearful of loss, we forsake 
the prize, which we have won ; and hearkening to the counsel 
of a natural enemy, eat of that bitter fruit which banishes for 
ever from our Kps the sweet savor which we knew before, and 
without which, no savor that is left is sweet. 


PBOGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 


149 


CHAPTER XX 

PROGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 

If 1 felt so deeply annoyed at the first morning visit which 
William Edgerton paid to my wife, what was my annoyance 
when these visits became habitual. I was miserable but could 
not complain. I was ashamed of the language of complaint on 
such a subject. There is something very ridiculous in the idea 
of a jealous husband — it has always provoked the laughter of 
the world ; and I was one of those men who shrunk from 
ridicule with a more than mortal dread. Besides, I really felt 
no alaiTti. I had the utmost confidence in my wife’s virtue. I had 
not the less confidence in that of Edgerton. But I w’as jealous 
of her deference — of her regard — for another. She was, in 
my eyes, as something sacred, set apart — a treasure exclusively 
my own ! Should it be that another should come to divide her 
veneration with me ? I was vexed that she should derive satis- 
faction from another source than myself. This satisfaction she 
derived from the visits of Edgerton. She freely avowed it. 

“ How amiable — how pleasant he is,” she would say, in the 
perfect innocence of her heart ; “ and really, Edward, he has so 
much talent !” 

These praises annoyed me. They were as so much worm- 
w^ood to my spirit. It must be remembered that I was not my- 
self what the world calls an amiable man. I doubt if any, 
even of my best friends, would describe me as a pleasant one. 
I was a man of too direct and earnest a temperament to estab- 
lish a claim, in '.reasonable degree, to either of these character- 
istics. I was, accordingly, something blunt in my address — 
the tones of my voice were loud — my manner was all empresse- 
except when I was actually angry, and then it was cold. 


1*50 CONFESSlOi^, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

hard, dry, inflexible. I was the last person in the world to 
pass for an amiable. Now, Julia, on the other hand, was quiet, 
subdued, timorous — the tones of a strong, decided voice startled 
her — she shrunk from controversy — yielded always with a 
happy grace in anticipation of the conflict, and showed, in all 
respects, that nice, almost nervous organization which attaches 
the value of principles and morals to mere manners, and would 
be as much shocked, perhaps, at the expression of a rudeness, 
as at the commission of a sin. Not that such persons would 
hold a sin to be less criminal or innocuous than would we our- 
selves ; but that they regard mere conduct as of so much more 
importance. 

When, therefore, she praised William Edgerton for those 
qualities which I well knew I did not possess, I could not resist 
the annoyance. My self-esteem — continually active — stimu- 
lated as it had been by the constant moral strife, to which it 
had been subjected from boyhood — was continually apprehend- 
ing disparagement. Of the purity of Julia’s heart, and the 
chastity of her conduct, the very freedom of her utterance was 
conclusive. Had she felt one single improper emotion toward 
William Edgerton, her lips would never have voluntarily ut- 
tered his name, and never in the language of applause. On 
this head I had not then the slightest apprehension. It was 
not jealousy so much as egdisme that was preying upon me. 
Whatever it was, however, it could not be repressed as I 
listened to the eulogistic language' of my wife. I strove, but 
could not subdue, altogether, the evil spirit which was fast be- 
coming predominant within me. Yet, though speaking under 
its immediate influence, I was very far from betraying its true 
nature. My egdisme had not yet made such advances as to be- 
come reckless and incautious. I surprised her by my answer 
to her eulogies. 

“ I have no doubt he is amiable — he is amiable — but that is 
not enough for a man. He must be something more than ami- 
able, if he would escape the imputation of being feeble — some- 
thing more if he would be anything !” 

Julia looked at me with eyes of profound and dilating aston- 
ishment. Having got thus far, it was easy to advance. The 
first step is half the journey in all such cases. 


PROGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 


151 


“ William Edgerton is a little too amiable, perhaps, for his 
own good. It makes him listless and worthless. He will do 
nothing at pictures, wasting his time only when he should be at 
his business.” 

“ But did I not understand you, Edward, that he was a man 
of fortune, and independent of his profession ?” she answered 
“timidly. 

“ Even that will not justify a man in becoming a trifler. No 
man should waste his time in painting, unless he makes a trade 
of it.” 

“ But his leisure, Edward,” suggested Julia, with a look of 
increasing timidity. 

“His leisure, indeed, Julia; — but he has been here all day 
— day after day. If painting, is such a passion with him, let 
him abandon law and take to it. But he should not pursue one 
art while professing another. It is as if a man hankered after 
that which he yet lacked the courage to challenge and pursue 
openly.’ 

“ I don’t think you love pictures as you used to, Edward,” 
she remarked to me, after a little interval passed in unusual 
silence 

“ Perha}>s it is because I have matters of more consequence 
to attend to Vou seem sufficiently devoted to. them now to ex- 
vTse my indifference.” 

' Surely, dear Edward, something I have done vexes you. 
Tell me> husband. Eo not spare me. Say, in what have I 
offended?” 

I had not the courage to be ingenuous. Ah ! if I had ! 

‘Nay, you hwe not offended,” I answered hastily — “I am 
only worried ^;fh some unmanageable thoughts. The law, you 
. know, is full ut pr v king, exciting, irritating necessities.” 

She looked at ne with a kind but searching glance. My soul 
seemed to shrink from that scrutiny. My eyes sunk beneath 
her gaze. 

“ I wish I knew how to console you, Edward : to make you 
entirely happy. I pray for it, Edward. I thought we were 
always to be so happy. Did you not promise me that you 
would always leave your cares at your office — that our cottage 
should be sacred to love and peace only ?” 


152 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

She put her arms about my neck, and looked into my face 
with such a sweet, strange, persuasive smile — half mirth, half 
sadness — that the evil spirit was subdued within me. I clasped 
her fervently in my embrace, with all my old feelings of con- 
fidence and joy renewed. At this moment the servant an- 
nounced Mr. Edgerton, and with a ctart — a movement — 
scarcely as gentle as it should have been, I put the fond and 
still beloved woman from my embrace ! 


CHANGES OE HOME. 


1 /)^! 




CHAPTER XXL 

CHANGES OF HOME. 

From this time my intercourse with William Edgerton was, 
on my part, one of the most painful and difficult constraint. I 
had nothing to reproach him with ; no grounds whatever for 
quarrel; and could not, in his case — regarding the long inti- 
macy which I had maintained with himself and father, and the 
obligations which were due from me to both — adopt such a 
manner of reserve and distance as to produce the result of indif- 
ference and estrangement which I now anxiously desired. I 
was Still compelled to meet him — meet him, too, with an affec- 
tation of good feeling and good humor, which I soon found it, 
of all things in the world, the most difficult even to pretend. 
How much would I have given could he only have provoked 
me to anger on any ground — could he have given me an occa- 
sion for difference of any sort or to any degree — anything 
which could have justified a mutual falling off from the old inti- 
macy ! But William Edgerton was meekness and kindness it- 
self. His confidence in me was of the most unobservant, suspi- 
cionless character ; either that, or I succeeded better than I 
thought in the effort to maintain the external aspects of old 
friendship. He saAv nothing of change in my deportment. He 
seemed not to see it, at least ; and came as usual, or more fre- 
quently than usual, to my house, until, at length, the studio of 
my wife was quite as much his as hers — nay, more ; for, after a 
brief space, whether it was that Julia saw what troubled me, or 
felt herself the imprudence of Edgerton’s conduct, she almost 
entirely surrendered it to him. She was not now so often to 
be seen in it. 

This proceeding alarmed me. I dreaded lest my secret 
should be discovered. I was shocked lest my wife should sup- 
pose me jealous. The feeling is one which carries with it a 

7 * 


151 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sufficiently severe commentary, in the fact that most men are 
heartily ashamed to be thought to suffer from it. But, if it 
vexed me to think that she should know or suspect the truth, 
how much more was I troubled lest it should be seen or sus- 
pected by others ! This fear led to new circumspection. I 
now affected levities of demeanor and remark ; studiously ab- 
sented myself from home of an evening, leaving my wife with 
Edgerton, or any other friend who happened to be present ; and, 
though I began no practices of profligacy, such as are common 
to young scapegraces in all times, I yet, to some moderate ex- 
tent. affected them. 

A tone of sadness now marked the features of my wife. 
There was an expression of anxiety in her countenance, which, 
amid all her previous sufferings, I had never seen there before. 
She did not complain ; but sometimes, when we sat alone to- 
gether, I reading, perhaps, and she sewing, she would drop her 
work in her lap, and sigh suddenly and deeply, as if the first 
shadows of the upgathering gloom were beginning to cloud her 
young and innocent spirit, and force her apprehensions into 
utterance. This did not escape me, but I read its signification, 
as witches are said to read the Bible, backward. A gloomier 
fancy filled my brain as I heard her unconscious sigh. 

“ It is the language of regret. She laments our marriage. 
She could have found another, surely, who could have made 
her happier. Perhaps, had Edgerton and herself known each 
other intimately before ! — ” 

Dark, perverse imagining ! It crushed me. I felt, I can not 
tell, what bitterness. Let no one suppose that I endured less 
misery than I inflicted. The miseries of the damned could not 
have exceeded mine in some of the moments when these cruel 
conjectures filled my mind. Then followed some such proofs as 
as these of the presence of the Evil One - 

“ You sigh, Julia. You are unhappy.” 

” Unhappy ? no, dear Edward, not unhappy ! What makes 
f ou think so 

“ What makes you sigh, then ?” 

” I do not know. I am certainly not unhappy. Did I siirh, 
Edward?” 

” Yes, avid seemingly from the very bdtto'in of yoiir heart. I 


changes 01 HOME 


155 


^lar, Julia, that you are not liappy ; nay, I am sure you are 
not ! I feel that I am not the man to make you happy. I am 
a perverse — ” 

Nay, Edward, now you speak so strangely, and your brow 
is stern, and your tones tremhje ! What can it be afflicts you ? 
.>!^cu are angry at something, dear Edward. Surely, it can not 
be with me.” 

•'And if it were, Julia, I am afraid it would give you little 
concern.” 

‘'Now, Edwardj you are cruel. You do me wrong. You do 
yourself wrong. Why should you suppose that it would give 
me little concern to see, you angry ? So far from this, I should 
regard it as the greatest misery which I had to suffer. Do not 
speak so, dearest Edtvard — do not fancy such things. Believe 
me, my husband, when I tell you that I know nothing half so 
dear to me as js our love — nothing that I would not sacrifice 
with a pleasure, to secure, to preserve that .'” 

Ah ! would you give up painting ?” 

“ Painting ! that were a small sacrifice ! I worked at it only 
because you used to like it.” 

“ What, you think I do not like it now ?” 

“ I know you do not.” 

“ But you paint still ?” 

“ No ! I have not handled brush or pencil for a week. Mr. 
Edgerton was reproaching me only yesterday for my neglect.” 

“xih, indeed! Well, you promised him to resume, did you 
not ? He is a rare persuader I lie is so amiable, so mild — you 
could not W'ell resist.” 

It was from her face that I formed a rational conjecture of 
ihe expression that must have appeared in mine. Her eyes 
dijated with a look of timid wonder, not unmixed with appre- 
hension. She actually shrunk back a space ; then, approach- 
ing, laid her hand upon my wrist, as she exclaimed : — 

“ God of heaven, Edward, what strange thought is in your 
bosom 1 what is the meaning of that look ? Look not so again, 
if you would not kill me !” 

I averted my face from hers, but without speaking. She 
'tew her arms around my neck. 

“ Do not turn away from me, Edward. Do not, do not, I 


150 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


entreat you ! You must not — no ! not till you tell me wliat 'C 
troubling you — not till I soothe you, and make you love mo 
again as much as you did at first.” 

When I turned to her again, the tears — hot, scalding tears 

— were already streaming down my cheeks. 

“ Julia, God knoAvs I love you ! Never woman yet was mor. 
devotedly loved by man! I love you too much — too deepl} 

— too entirely I Alas, I love nothing else 1” 

“ Say not that you love me too much — that can not be 1 
I not love you — you only, you altogether? Should I not have 
your whole love in return ?” 

“Ah, Julia! but my love is a convulsive eagerness of soul — 
a passion that knows no limit ! It is not that my heart is en- 
tirely yours : it is that it is yours with a frenzied desperation. 
There is a fanaticism in love as in religion. My h ve is that 
fiinaticism. It burns — it commands — Avhere yours would but 
soothe and solicit.” 

“But is mine the less true — the less valuable for this, dear 
Edward ?” 

“ No, perhaps not ! It may be even more true, more x alua- 
ble ; it may be only less intense. But fanaticism, you know, is 
exacting — nothing more so. It permits no half-passion, no mod- 
erate zeal. It insists upon devotion like its own. Ah, Julia, 
could you but love as I do !” 

“ I love you all, Edward, all that I can, and as it belongs 
my nature to love. But I am a Avoman, and a timid one, you 
know. I am not capable of that Avild passion which you fcBi. 
Were I to indulge it, it would most certainly destroy me. Even 
as it sometimes appears in you, it terrifies and unnerves me. 
You are so impetuous!” 

“Ah, you would have only the meek, the amiable !” 

And thus, with an implied sarcasm, our conversation ended. 
Julia turned on me a look of imploring, Avhich was naturally 
one of reproach. It did not have its proper influence upon me. 

I seized my hat, and hurried from the house. I rushed, rather 
than walked, through the strejets ; and, before I knew Avhere I 
Avas, I found’myself on the banks of the river, under the shade 
of trees, Avith the soft evening breeze blowing upc n me, and the ' 
placid moon sailing quietly above. I threAv myself (l>AAn upon h 


CHANGES OP HOME. 


157 


the grass, and delivered myself up to gloomy thoughts. Here 
was I, then, scarcely twenty-five years old ; young, vigorous ; 
with a probable chance of fortune before me ; a young and 
lovely wife, the very creature of my first and only choice, one 
whom I tenderly loved, whom, if to seek again, I should again, 
and again, and only, seek ! Yet I was miserable — miserable 
in the very possession of my first hopes, my best joys — the 
very treasure that had always seemed the dearest in my sight. 
Miserable blind heart ! miserable indeed ! For what was there 
to make me miserable ? Absolutely npthing — nothing that the 
outer world could give — nothing that it could ever take away, 
l^ut what fool is it that fancies there must be a reason for one’s 
wretchedness ] The reason is in our own hearts ; in the per- 
verseness which can make of its own heaven a hell ! not often 
fashion a heaven out of hell ! 

Brooding, I lay upon the sward, meditating unutterable things, 
and as far as ever from any conclusion. Of one thing alone I 
was satisfied — that I was unutterably miserable; that my des- 
tiny was written in sable ; that I was a man foredoomed to wo ! 
Were my speculations strange or unnatural! Unnatural in- 
deed I There is a class of surface-skimming persons, who pro- 
nounce all things unnatural which, to a cool, unprovoked, and 
perhaps unprovokable mind, appear unreasonable : as if a 
vexed nature and exacting passions were not the most unrea- 
sonable yet most natural of all moral agents. My woes may 
have been groundless, but it was surely not unnatural that I 
felt and entertained them. 

Thus, with bitter mood, growing more bitter with every mo- 
ment of its unrestrained indulgence, I gloomed in loneliness 
beside the banks of that silvery and smooth-flowing river. Cer- 
tainly the natural world around me lent no color to my fancies. 
While all was dark within, all was bright without. A fiend was 
tugging at my heart; while from a little white cottage, a few 
hundred yards below, which grew flush with the margin of the 
stream, there itole forth the tender, tinkling strains of a guitar, 
probably touched by fair fingers of a fair maiden, with some 
enamored boy, blind and doting, hovering beside her. I, too, 
bad stood thus and hearkened thus, and where am I — whal 
am I ! 


158 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I started to my feet. I foiitid something offensive in the mu- 
sic. It came linked with a soiig which I had heard Julia sing 
a hundred times ; and when I thought of those hours of confi- 
dence, and felt myself where I was, alone-— and how lone ! — 
bitterer than ever were the wayward pangs which were preying 
upon the tenderest fibres of my heart. 

In the next moment I ceased to be alone. I was met and 
jostled by another person as I bounded forward, much too rap- 
idly, in an effort to bury myself in the deeper shadow of some 
neighboring trees. The stranger was nearly overthrown in the 
collision, which extorted a hasty exclamation from his lips, not 
unmingled with a famous oath or two. In the voice I recog- 
nised that of my friend Kingsley — the well-known pseudo- 
Kentucky gentleman, who had acted a part so important in 
extricating my wife from her mother’s custody. I made myself 
known to him in apologizing for my rudeness. 

“You here!” said he; “I did not expect to meet you. I 
have just been to your house, where I found your wife, and 
where I intended to stop a while and wait for you. But Bill 
Edgerton, in the meanwhile, popped in, and after that I could 
hear nothing but pictures and paintings. Madonnas, Ecce Ho- 
mos, and the like ; till I began to fancy that I smelt nothing 
but paint and varnish. So I popped out, with a pretty blunt 
excuse, leaving the two amateurs to talk in oil and water-colors, 
and settle the principles of art as they please. Like you, I 
fancy a real landscape, here, by the water, and under the green 
trees, in preference to a thousand of their painted pictures.” 

It may be supposed that my mood underwent precious little 
improvement after this communication. Dark conceits, darker 
than ever, came across my mind. I longed to get awav, and 
return to that home from which I had banished confidence I — 
ah, only too happy if there still lingered hope ! But my friend, 
blunt, good-liumored, and thoughtless creature as he Avas, took 
foi granted that I had come to look at the landscape, to admire 
water-views by moonlight, and drink fresh draughts of sea- 
breeze from the southwest ; and, thrusting his arm through mine, 
he dragged me on, down, almost to the threshold of the cottage, 
whence still issued the tinkle, tinkle, of the guitar which had 
first driven me away. 


CHANGES OF HOME. 


159 


“That girl sings well. Do you know licr — Miss Davison? 
She’s s^>on to be married, they say (d — li ‘ they say,’ however 
— the e^'^eatest scandal-monger, if not mischief-maker and liar, 
in thf world !) — she is soon to be married to young Trescott — 
a ch.ver lad who sniffles, plays on the flute, wears whisker and 
imperial on the most cream-colored and effeminate face you 
c /er saw ! A good fellow, nevertheless, but a silly ! She is a 
good fellow, too, rather the cleverest of the twain, and perhaps 
the oldest. The match, if match it really is to be, none of the 
wisest for that very reason. The damsel, now-a-days, who mar 
ries a lad younger than herself, is laying up a large stock of 
pother, which is to bother her when she becomes thirty — for 
even young ladies, you know, after forty, may become thirty. 
A sort of dispensation of nature. . She sings well, nevertheless. 

I said something — it matters not what. Dark images of 
home were in my eyes. I heard no song — saw no landscape 
The voice of Kingsley was a sort of buzzing in my ears. 

“ You are dull to-nigli^, but that song ought to soothe you. 
What a cheery, light-hearted wench it is ! Her voice does 
seem so to rise in air, shaking its wings, and crying tira-la ! ■ 
tira-la ! with an enthusiasm which is catching ! I almost feel 
prompted to kick up my heels, throw a summerset, and, while 
turning on my axis, give her an echo of tira-la ! tira-la ! tira-la ! 
after her own fashion.” 

“ You are certainly a happy, mad fellow, Kingsley !” was my 
faint, cheerless commentary upon a gayety of heart which 1 
could not share, and the unreserved expression of which, at 
that moment, only vexed me. 

“And you no glad one, Clifford. That song, which almost 
prompts me to dance, makes no impression on you ! By-the- 
way, your wife used to sing so well, and now I never hear her 

That d d painting, if you don’t mind, will make her give 

up everything else ! As for Bill Edgerton, he cares for nothing 
else out his varnish, trees, and umber-hills, and streaky water. 
You shouldn’t let him fill 3^our wife’s mind with this oil-and- 
varnish spirit — giving up the piano, the guitar, and that sweeter 
instrument than all, her own voice. D — n the paintings ! — 
his long talk on the subject almost makes me sick of everything 
like a picture. I now look upon a beautiful landscape like this. 


160 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


as a tiling that is shortly to he desecrated — taken in vain—-' 
scratched out of shape and proportion upon a deal-hoard, and’ 
colored after such a fashion as never before was seen in . the nat- 
ural world, upon, or under, or about this solid earth. D — n 
the pictures, I say again ! — but, for God’s sake, Clifford, don’t 
let your Avife give up the music ! Make her play, even if she 
don’t like it. She likes the painting best, but I wouldn’t allow 
it ! A wife is a sort of person that we set to do those things 
that we wish done and can’t do for ourselves. That’s my defi- 
nition of a wife. Noav, if I were in your place, with my pres- 
ent love for music and dislike of pictures, I’d put her at the 
piano, and put the paint-saucers, and the oil, and the smutted 
canvass, out of the Avindow ; and then — unless he came to his 
senses like other people — I’d thrust Bill Edgerton out aftei 
them ! I’d never let the best friend in the world spoil my Avife ” 
The effect of this random chatter of my good-natured friend 
upon my mind may well be imagined. It was fortunate tha* 
he was quite too much occupied in what he was saying to note 
my annoyance. In vain, anxious to be let off, Avas I restrained 
in utterance — cold, unpliable. The good fellow took for granted 
that it Avas an act of friendship to try to.amuse ; and thus, yearn- 
ing Avith a nameless discontent and apprehension to get home. 

I Avas marched to and fro along the river-bank, from one scene 
to another — he, meanwhile, utterly heedless of time, and as 
actively bent on perpetual motion as if his sinews Avere of stee^ 
and his flesh iron. MeanAvhile, the guitar ceased, and the song 
in the cottage of Miss Davison ; the lights went out in that and 
all the other dAvellings in sight; the moon Avaned ; and it Avas 
not till the clock from a distant steeple tolled out the houi of 
eleven Avith startling solemnity, that Kingsley exclaimed : — 

“ Well, mon atni, we have had a ramble, and I trust I have 
someAvhat dissipated your gloomy fit. And now to bed — Avhat 
say you ? — Avith what appetite we may !” 

With Avhat appetite, indeed ! We separated. I rushed home-' 
ward, the moment he was out of sight — once more stood before 
my ovni dwelling. There the lights remained unextinguish e4 
and William Edgerton Avas still a tenant of my parlor 1 


SELF-HUMILIATION. 


161 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SELF-HUMILIATION. 

I HAD not the courage to enter my own dwelling ! My heart 
sank within me. It was as if the whole hope of a long life, an 
intense desire, a keen unremitting pursuit, had suddenly been for 
ever baffled. Let no one who has not been in my situation ; who 
has not been governed by like moral and social influences from 
the beginning ; who knows not my sensibilities, and the organi- 
zation — singular and strange it may be — of my mind and body; 
let no such person jump to the conclusion that there was any 
thing unnatural, however unreasonable and unreasoning, in the 
Avild passion which possessed me. I look back upon it with 
some surprise myself. The fears which I felt, the sufferings I 
endured, however unreasonable, were yet true to my training. 
That training made me selfish; how selfish let my blindness 
show ! In the blindness of self I could see nothing but the thing 
I feared, the one phantom — phantom though it were — which 
was sufficient to quell and crush all the better part of man Avith- 
in me, banish all the real blessings which were at command 
around me. I gave but a single second glance through the win ' 
dows of my habitation, and then darted desperately aAvay from 
the entrance ! I bounded, without a consciousness, through the 
noAv still and dreary streets, and found myself, without intending 
it, once more beside the river, whose constant melancholy chi- 
dings, seemed the echoes — though in the faintest possible degree 
— of the deep waters of some apprehensive sorrow then rolling 
through all the channels of my soul. 

What Avas it that I feared ? What was it that I sought ? Was 
it love ? Can it be that the strange passion Avhich we call by 
this name, was the source of that sad frenzy which filled and 
afflicted my heart ? And was I not successful in my love ? Had 


162 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I not found the sought? — won the withheld? What was 
denied to me that I desired ? I asked oT myself these questions. 
I asked them in vain. I could not answer them. I believe that 
I can answer now. It was sincerity, earnestness, devotion from 
her, all speaking through an intensity like that which I felt 
within my own soul. 

Now, Julia lacked this earnestness, this intensity. Accustom- 
c:l to submission, her manner was habitually subdued. Her 
strongest utterance was a tear, and that was most frequently 
hidden. She did not respond to me in the language in which 
my affections were wont to speak. Sincerity she did not lack 
— far from it — she was truth itself! It is the keener pang to 
my conscience noAV, that I am compelled to admit this conviction. 
Her modes of utterance were not less true than mine. They 
were not less significant of truth ; but they were after a different 
fashion. In a moment of calm and reason, I might have believed 
this tiuth j nay, I knew it, even at those moments when I was 
most unjust. It was not the truth that I required so much as 
the presence of an attachment which could equal mine in its 
degree and strength. This was not in her nature. She was 
one taught to subdue her nature, to repress the tendencies of her 
heart, to submit in silence and in meekness. She had invaria- 
bly done so until the insane urgency of her mother made her 
desperate. But for this desperation she had still submitted, per- 
haps, had never been my wife. In the fervent intensity of my 
own love, I fancied, from the beginning, that there was some- 
thing too temperate in the tone of hers. Were I to be exam- 
ined now, on this point, I should say that her deportment was 
one which declared the nicest union of sensibility and maidenly 
propriety. But, compared with mine, her passions were feeble, 
frigid. Mine were equally intense and exacting. Perhaps, had 
she even responded to my impetuosity with a like fervor, I should 
have recoiled from her with a feeling of disgust much more rapid 
and much more legitimate, than was that of my present frenzy. 

Frenzy it was ! and it led me to -the performance of those 
things of which I shame to speak. But the truth, and its honest 
utterance noWj must be one of those forms of atonement with 
which I may hope, perhaps vainly, to lessen, in the sight of 
Heaven, some of my human offences. I had scarcely reacljed 


SELF-HU.*liLlATiON. 


163 


tlic 'watcr-side before a new imj^odse drove me back. You wib 
scarcely believe me when I tell } outliat I descended to tbebasc 
character of the spy Upon my Household. The blush is red on 
my cheek while I record the shameful error. I entered the gar 
den, stole like a felon to the lattice of the apartment in which 
my wife sat with her guest, and looked m with a greedy fear, 
upon the features of the two ! 

What were my own features then ? What the expression of 
my eyes ? It was well that I could not see them ; I felt that 
they must be frightful. But what did I expect to see in this es- 
pionage? As I live, honestly now, and with what degree of 
honesty I then possessed, I may truly declaie that when I 
thought upon the subject at all, I had no more suspicion that my 
Avife Avould be guilty of any gross crime, than 1 had of the guilt 
of the Deity himself. Far from it. Such a fancy never troubled 
me. But, Avhat was it to me, loving as I did, exclusive, and 
selfish, and exacting as I was — what was it tome if, forbearing 
all crime of conduct, she yet regarded another with eyes of 
idolatry — if her mind was yielded up to him in deference and 
regard ; and thoughts, disparaging to me, filled her brain with 
his superior worth, manners, merits ? He had tastes, perhaps 
talents, which I had not. In the forum, in all the more ener- 
getic, more imposing performances of life, William Edgerton, I 
knew, could take no rank in competition with myself. But I 
Avas no ladies’ man. I had no arts of society. My manners 
were even rude. My address was direct almost to bluntness. I 
had no discriminating graces, and could make no sacrifice, in 
that school of polish, where the delicacy is too apt to become 
false, and the performances trifling. It is idle to dwell on this ; 
still more idle to speculate upon probable causes. It may be 
that there are persons in the world of both sexes, and governed 
by like influences, who have been guilty of like follies ; to them 
my revelations may be of service. My discoveries, if I have 
made any, were quite too late to be of much help to me. 

To resume, I prowled like a guilty phantom around my own 
habitation. I scanned closely, with the keenest eyes of jealousy, 
every feature, every movement of the two within. In the eyes 
of Edgerton, I beheld — I did not deceive myself in this — I 
beheld the speaking soul, devoted, rapt, full of love for the ob 


104 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


ject of Lis survey That he loved her was to me sufficiently 
cl Bar. His words were few, faintly spoken, timid. His eyes 
did not encounter hers ; but when hers were averted, they 
riveted their fixed glances upon her face with the adhe- 
rence of the yearning steel for the magnet ! Bitterly did I 
gnash my teeth — bitterly did my spirit rise in rebellion, as I 
noted these characteristics. But, vainly, with all my perversity 
of feeling and judgment, did I examine the air, the look, the 
action, the expression, the tones, the words of my wife, to make 
a like discovery. All was passionless, all seeming pure, in her 
whole conduct. She was gentle in her manner, kind in her 
Avoids, considerate in her attentions; but so entirely at ease, so 
OAudently unconscious, as well of improper thoughts in hei'self 
as of an improper tendency in him, that, though still resolute to 
be Avilful and unhappy, I yet could see nothing of which I could 
reasonably complain. Nay, I fancied that there Avas a touch of 
hstlessiiess. amounting to indifference, in her air, as if she really 
wished him to be gone ; and, for a moment, my heart beat Avith 
a returning flood of tenderness, that almost prompted me to rush 
suddenly into the apartment and clasp her to my arms. 

At length, Edgerton departed. When he rose to do so, I felt 
the awkAvardness of my situation — the meanness of Avhich I 
had been guilty — the disgrace Avhich Avould folloAv detection. 
44ie shame I already felt ; but, though sickening beneath it, the 
passion Avhich drove me into the commission of so slavish an act, 
was still superior to all others, and could not then be overcome. 
I liurried from the windoAV and from the premises Avhilc he was 
taking his leave. My mind Avas still in a frenzy. I rambled 
off, unconsciously, to the most secluded places along the suburbs, 
endeaAmring to lose the thoughts that troubled me. I had now 
a new cause for vexation. I Avas haunted by a couAuction of 
my own shame. How could I look Julia in the face — how meet 
and speak to her, and hear the accents of her voice and my OAvn 
after the uuAvorthy espionage which I had instituted upon her ? 
Would not my eyes betray me — my faltering accents, my 
abashed looks, my flushed and burning cheeks ? I felt that it 
Avas impossible for me to escape detection. I Avas sure that every 
look, eAT.ry tone, Avould sufficiently betray my secret. Perhaps 
I should not have felt this fear, liad I possessed the courage t» 


SKLP-HaMlLlATION. 


165 


resolve against the repetition of my error. Could I have de- 
clared this resolution to myself, to forego the miserable proceed- 
ing which I had that night begun, I feel that I should then have 
taken one large step toward my own deliverance from that for- 
midable fiend which was then raging unmastered in my soul. 
But I lacked the courage for this. Fatal deficiency ! I felt im- 
pressed with the necessity of keeping a strict watch upon Ed- 
gorton. I had seen, with eyes that could not be deceived, the 
feeling which had been expressed in his. I saw that he loved 
her, perhaps, without a consciousness himself of the unhappy 
truth. I hurried to the conclusion, accordingly, that he must be 
looked after. I did not so immediately perceive that in looking 
after him, I was, in truth, looking after Julia ; for what was my 
watch upon Edgerton but a watch upon her ? I had not the 
confidence in her to leave her to herself. That was my error. 
The true reasoning by which a man in my situation should be 
governed, is comprised in a nutshell. Either the wife is virtuous 
or she is not. If she is virtuous, she is safe without my espion- 
age. If she is not, all the watching in the world will not sufiice 
to make her so. As for the discovery of her falsehood, he will 
- make that fast enough. The security of the husband lies in his 
wife’s purity, not in his own eyes. It must be added to this ar- 
gument that the most virtuous among us, man or woman, is still 
very weak ; and neither wife, nor daughter, nor son, should be 
exposed to unnecessary temptation. Do we not daily implore 
in our own prayers, to be saved from temptation ? 

I need not strive to declare what were my thoughts and feel- 
ings as I wandered off from my dwelling and place of espionage 
that night. No language of which I am possessed could embody 
to the idea of the reader the thousandth pari of what I suffered. 
An insane and morbid resentment filled my heart. A close, 
heavy, hot stupor, pressed upon my brain. My limbs seemed 
feeble as those of a child. I tottered in the streets. The stars, 
bright mysterious watchers, seemed peering down into my face 
with looks of smiling inquiry. The sudden bark of a watch-dog 
startled and unnerved me. I felt with the consciousness of a 
mean action, all the humiliating weakness which belongs to it. 

It took me a goodly hour before I could muster up courage 
to return home, and it was then midnight. Julia had retired to 


166 


CONPESSiONj OR TifE BLIND HEART. 


her chamber, but not yet to her couch. She flew to me on my 
entrance — to my arms. 1 shrunk from her embraces; but she 
grasped me with greater firmness. I had never witnessed so 
much Y'armth in her before. It surprised me, but the solution 
of it was easy. My long stay had made her apprehensive. It 
Was so lihiisual. My coldness, when she embraced me, was as 
startling to her, as her sudden warmth was surprising to me. 
She pushed me from her — still, however, holding me in her 
grasp, while she surveyed me. Then she started^ and with 
newer apprehensions. 

Well she might. My looks alarmed her. My hair was dis- 
hevelled and moist with the night-dews. My cheeks were very 
pale. There was a quick, agitated, and dilating fullness of my 
eyes, which rolled hastily about the apartment, never even 
resting upon her. They dared not. I caught a hasty glance 
of myself in the mirror, and scarcely knew my own features. 
It was natural enough that she should be alarmed. She clung 
to me with increased fervency. She spoke hurriedly, but clear- 
ly, with an increased and novel power of utterance, the due 
result of her excitement. Could that excitement be occasioned 
by love for me — by a suspicion of the truth, namely, that I had 
been watching her ? I shuddered as this last conjecture passed 
into my mind. That, indeed, would be a humiliation— worse, 
more degrading, by far, than all. 

“Oh, why have you left me — so long, so very long? where 
have you been? what has happened?” 

“ Nothing — nothing.” 

“Ah, but there is something, Edward. Speak! what is it, 
dear husband ? I see it in your eyes, your looks I Why do 
you turn from me ? Look on me 1 tell me 1 You are very 
pale, and your eyes are so wild, so strange ! You are sick, 
dear Edward ; you are suiicly sick : tell me, what has happened ?” 

Wild and hurried as they were, never did tones of more touch- 
ing sweetness fall from any lips. They unmanned — nay, I use 
the wrong word — they manned me for the time. They brought 
me back to my senses, to a conviction of her truth, to a momen- 
tary conviction of my own folly. My words fell from me with- 
out effort — few, hurried, husky — but it was a sudden heart- 
gush, which was unrestrainable. 


<• SELF-HUxMILIATION. " 167 

“Ask me not, Julia — ask me nothing ; but love me, only love 
me, and all will be well — all is well.” 

“ Do I not — all ! do I not love you, Edward 1” 

“ I believe you — God be praised, I do believe you !” 

“ Ob, surely, Edward, you never doubted this.” 

“No, no! — never!” 

Sucb was tbe fervent ejaculation of my lips; sucb, in spite 
of its seeming inconsistency, was tbe real belief witbin my soul 
Wbat was it, then, that I did doubt ? wberefore, then, tbe mis- 
ery, tbe suspense, tbe suspicion, wbicb grew and gathered, cor- 
roding in my heart, tbe parent of a thousand unnamed anxie- 
ties? It will be difficult to answer. Tbe heart of man is one 
of those strange creations, so various in its moods, so infinite in 
its ramifications, so subtle and sudden in its transitions, as to 
defy investigation as certainly as it refuses remedy and relief. 
It is enough to say that, with one schooled as mine bad been, 
injuriously, and with injustice, there is little certainty in any of 
its movements. It becomes habitually capricious, feeds upon 
passions intensely, without seeming detriment ; and, after a sea- 
son, prefers tbe unwholesome nutriment which it has made vital, 
to those purer natural sources of strength and succor, without 
which, though it may still enjoy life, it can never know hap- 
piness. 


168 


CONFESSION, OH THE HLIND HEAIif. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

PROGRESS OF PASSION. 

“But, do not leave me another time — not so long, Edward 
Do not leave me alone. Your business is one thing. That you 
must, of course, attend to; but hours — not of business — hours 
in which you do no business — hours of leisure — your evenings, 
Edward — these you must share with me — you must give to 
me entirely. Ah ! will you not? will you not promise me?” 

These were among the last words which she spoke to me ere 
we slept that night. The next morning, almost at awaking, she 
resumed the same language. I could not help perceiving that 
she spoke in tones of greater earnestness than usual — an ear- 
nestness expressive of anxiety for which I felt at some loss to 
account. Still, the tenor of what she said, at the time, gave me 
pleasure — a satisfaction which I did not^seek to conceal, and 
which, while it lasted, was the sweetest of all pleasures to my 
soul. But the busy devil in my heart made his suggestions also, 
which were of a kind to produce any other but satisfying emo- 
tions. While I stood in my wife’s presence — in the hearing 
of her angel-voice, and beholding the pure spirit speaking out 
from her eyes — he lay dormant, rebuked, within his prison- 
house, crouching in quiet, waiting a more auspicious moment 
for activity. Nor was he long in waiting ; and then his cold, 
insinuating doubts — his inquiries — begot and startled mine ! 

“Very good — all very good!” Such was the tone of . his 
RWgei^tiom, “ She may well compound for the evenings v/ith 
you, since she gives her whole tnommg' V rival.” 

Archimedes asked but little for the propuls'ion of 
The jealous spirit — a spirit jealous like mine — asks stiu 
for the moving of that little but densely-populous world, the 
human heart. I forgot the sweet tones of my wife’s words — 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


1G9 


the pure-souled words themselves — tones and words which, 
W'hile their sounds yet lingered in my ears, I could not have 
Tjaestioned — I did not dare to question. The tempter grew in 
the ascendant the moment I had passed out of her sight ; and 
when I met William Edgerton the next day, he acquired 
greatly-increased power over my understanding. 

William Edgerton had evidently undergone a change. He 
no longer met my glances boldly with his own. Perhaps, had 
he done so, my eyes would have been the first to shrink from 
the encounter. He looked down, or looked aside, when he 
spoke to me ; his words w^ere few, timorous, hesitating, but stu- 
diously conciliatory ; and he lingered no longer in my presence 
than was absolutely unavoidable. Was there not a conscious- 
ness in this? and what consciousness? The devil at my heart 
answ^ered, and answered with truth, “He loves your wife.” It 
w'ould have been well, perhaps, had the cruel fiend said nothing 
farther. - Alas ! I would have pardoned, nay, pitied William 
Edgerton, had the same chuckling spirit not assured me that 
she also was not insensible to him. I was continually reminded 
of the words, “ Your business must, of course, be attended to !” 
— “What a considerate wife !” said the tempter; “how very 
unusual with young wives, with whom business is commonly 
the very last consideration !” 

That very day, I found, on reaching home, that William 
Edgerton had been there — had gone there almost the moment 
after he had left me at the office ; and that he had remained 
there, obviously at work in the studio, until the time drew nigh 
for my return to dinner. My feelings forbade any inquiries. 
These facts were all related by my wife herself. I did not ask 
to hear them. I asked for nothing more than she told. The 
dread that my jealousy should be suspected made me put on a 
sturdy aspect of indifference ; and that exquisite sense of deli- 
cacy, which governed every movement of my wife’s heart and 
conduct, forbade her to say — what yet she certainly desired 
I should know — that, in all that time, she had nut seen him, 
nor he her. She had studiously kept aloof in her chamber so 
long as he remained. Meanwhile, I brooded over their sup- 
posed long and secret interviews. These I took for granted. 
The happiness they felt — the mutual smile they witnessed — ^ 

8 


170 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

the unconscious sighs they uttered ! Such a picture of theii 
supposed felicity as njy morbid imagination conjured up would 
have roused a doubly damned and damning fiend in the heart 
of any mortal. 

What a task was mine, struggling with these images, these 
convictions ! — my pride struggling to conceal, my feelings strug- 
gling to endure. Then, there were other conflicts. What friends 
had the Edgertons been to me — father, mother — nay, that son 
himself, once so fondly esteemed, once so fondly esteeming ! 
Of course, no ties such as these could have made me patient 
under wrong. But they were such as to render it necessary 
that the wrong should be real, unquestionable, beyond doubt 
beyond excuse. This I felt, this I resolved. 

“ I will wait ! I will be patient ! I will endure, though the 
vulture gnaws incessant at my heart ! I will do nothing pre- 
cipitate. No, no : I must beware of that ! But let me prove 
them treacherous — let them once falter, and go aside from the 
straight path, and then — oh, then !” 

Such, as in spoken words, was the unspoken resolution of my 
soul ; and this resolution required, first of all, that I should 
carry out the base purpose which, without a purpose, I had 
already begun. I must be a spy upon their interviews. Tliey 
must be followed, watched — eyes, looks, hands ! Miserable ne- 
cessity ! but, under my present feelings and determination, not 
the less a necessity. And I, alone, must do it ; I, alone, must 
peer busily into these mysteries, the revelation of which can 
result only in my own ruin — seeking still, with an earnest dili- 
gence, to discover that which I should rather have prayed for 
eternal and unmitigated blindness, that I might not see ! Mine 
was, indeed, the philosophy of the madman. 

I persevered in it like one. I yielded all opportunities for 
the meeting of the parties — all opportunities which, in yield- 
ing, did not expose me to the suspicion of having any sinister 
object. If, for example, I found, or could conjecture, that Wil- 
liam Edgerton was likely to be at my house this or that even- 
ing, I studiously intimated, beforehand, some necessity for being 
myself absent. This carried me frequently from home — lone, 
wandering, vexing myself with the most hideous conjectures, 
the most self-torturing apprehensions. I sped away, obviously, 


PllOailELS Oi PASSION. • 17.1 

into tlie city — to alleged meetings with friends or clients — j? 
on some pretence or other which seemed ordinary and natura.' 
But my course was to return, and, under cover of night, to prow, 
around my own premises, like some guilty ghost, doomed t 
haunt the scene of former happiness, in its wantonness rendered 
a scene of ever-during misery. Certainly, no guilty ghost ever 
suffered in his penal tortures a torture worse than mine at these 
humiliating moments. It was torture enough to me that I was 
sensible of all the unhappy meanness of my conduct. On this 
head, though I strove to excuse myself on the score of a sup- 
posecT necessity, I could not deceive myself — r.o !- -not for the 
smallest moment. 

Weeks passed in this manner — weeks to me of misery — of 
annoyance and secret suffering to my wife. In this time, my 
espionage resulted in nothing but what has been already shown 
— in what was already sufficiently obvious to me. William 
Edgerton continued his insane attentions : he sought my dwel- 
ling with studious perseverance — sought it particularly at those 
periods when he fancied I was absent — when he knew it — 
though such were not his exclusive periods of visitation. He 
came at times when I was at home. His passion for my wife 
was sufficiently evident to me, though her deportment was such 
as to persuade me that she did not see it. All that I beheld of 
her conduct was irreproachable. There was a singular and 
sweet dignity in her air and manner, when they were together, 
that seemed one of the most insuperable barriers to any rash or 
presumptuous approach. While there was no constraint about 
her carriage, there was no familiarity — nothing to encourage 
or invite familiarity. While .she answered freely, responding 
to all the needs of a suggested subject, she herself never seemed 
to broach one ; and, after hours of nightly watch, which ran 
through a period of weeks, in which I strove at the shameful 
occupation of the espial, I was compelled to admit that all her 
part was as purely unexceptionable as the most jealous husband 
could have wished it. 

But not so with the conduct of William Edgerton. His atten- 
tions were increasing. His passion was assuming some of the 
forms of that delirium to which, under encouragement, it is usu- 
ally driven in the end. He now passionately watched my wife’s 


172 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

coantsiiaiice, and no longer averted his glance when it suddenly 
encountered hers. His eyes, naturally tender in expression,, 
now assumed a look of irrepressible ardency, from which, I now 
fancied — pleased to fancy — that hers recoiled ! He would 
linger long in silence, silently watching her, and seemingly un- 
conscious, the while, equally of his scrutiny and his silence. At 
such times, I could perceive that Julia would turn aside, or her 
own eyes would he marked by an expression of the coldest va- 
cancy, which, hut for other circumstances, or in any other con- 
dition of my mind, would have seemed to me conclusive of her 
indignation or dislike. But, when such became my thought, it 
was soon expelled by some suggestion from the busy devil of 
my imfl gination : — 

“ They may well put on this appearance now; but are such 
their looks when they meet, sometimes for a whole morning, in 
the painting- room Even here, the fiend was silenced by a 

fact which was revealed to me in one of my nocturnal watches. 

“Clifford not at home?’’ said Edgerton one evening as he 
entered, addressing my wife, and looking indifferently around 
the room. “ I wished to tell him about some pictures which 
are to be seen at ’s room — really a lovely Guido — an in- 

fant Savior — and something, said to he by Carlo Dolce, though 
I doubt. You must see them. Shall 1 call for you to-morrow 
morning V* 

“ I thank you, but have an engagement for the morning.” 

“Well, the next day. They will remain but a few days 
longer in the city.” 

“ I am sorry, but I shall not be able to go even the next day, 
I am so busy.” 

“ Busy ? ah ! that reminds me to ask if you have given up 
the pencil altogether ? Have you wholly abandoned the studio ? 
I never see you now at work in the morning. I had no thought 
that you had so much of the fashionable taste for morning calls, 
shopping, and the like.” 

“ ^Tor have I,” was the quiet answer. “ I seldom leave home 
in the morning.” 

“Indeed!” with some doubtfulness of countenance, almost 
amounting to chagrin — “ indeed ! how is it that I so seldom 
see you, then ?” 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


173 


“ The cares of a household, I suppose, might be my sufficient 
excuse. While my liege lord works abroad, I find my duties 
sufficiently urgent to task all my time at home.” 

“ Really — but you do not propose to abandon the atelier en- 
tirely ? Clifford himself, with his great fondness for the art, 
will scarcely be satisfied that you should, even on a pretence 
of ■work.” 

“ I do not know. I do not think that my liushand" — the last 
two words certainly emphasized — “cares much about it. I 
suspect that music and painting, however much they delighted 
and employed our girlhood, form but a very insignificant part 
of our duties and enjoyments when we get married.” 

“But you do not mean to say that a fine landscape, or an 
exquisite head, gives you less satisfaction than before your mar- 
riage ?” 

“ I confess they do. Life is a very different thing before and 
after marriage. It seems far more serious — it appears to me a 
possession now, and time a sort of property which has to be 
economized and doled out almost as cautiously as money. I 
have not touched a brush this fortnight. I doubt if I have 
been in the painting-room more than once in all this time.” 

This conversation, which evidently discomfited William Ed- 
gerton, was productive to me of no small satisfaction. After a 
brief interval, consumed in silence, he resumed it : — 

“ But I must certainly get you to see these pictures. Nay, I 
must also — since you keep at home — persuade you to look 
into the studio to-morrow, if it be only to flatter my vanity by 
looking at a sketch which I have amused myself upon the last 
three mornings. By-the-way, why may we not look at it to- 
night ?” 

“We shall not be able to examine it carefully by night,” was 
the answer, as I fancied, spoken with unwonted coldness and 
deliberation. 

“ So much the better for me,” he replied, with an ineffecti al: 
attempt to laugh; “you will be less able to discern its defects.” 

“ The same difficulty will endanger its beauties,” Julia an- 
swered, without offering to rise. 

“ Well, at least, you must arrange for seeing the pictures at 
^ They are to remain but a few days, and I would not 


171 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

have you miss seeing them for the world. Suppose you say 
Saturday morning ?” 

“ If nothing happens to prevent,” she said ; “ and I will en- 
deavor to persjuade Mr. Clifford to look at them with us.” 

“ Oh, he is so full of his law and clients, that you will hardly 
succeed.” 

This was spoken with evident dissatisfaction. The arrange- 
ment, trhich included me, seemed unnecessary. I need not say 
that I was better pleased with my wife than I had been for 
some time previous ; but here the juggling fiend interposed 
again, to suggest the painful suspicion that she knew of my 
whereabouts, of my jealousy, of my espionage ; that her words 
were rather meant for my ears than for those of Edgerton ; or, 
if this were not the case, her manner to Edgerton was simply 
adopted, as she had now become conscious of her own feelings 
— feelings of peril — feelings which would not permit her to 
trust herself. Ah ! she feared herself : she had discovered the 
passion of William Edgerton, and it had taught her the clmr- 
acter and tendency of her own. Wa,s there ever more self- 
destroying malice than was mine ? I settled down upon this 
last conviction. My wife’s coldness was only assumed to pre- 
vent Edgerton from seeing her weakness ; and, for Edgerton 
himself, I now trembled with the conviction that I should have 
to shed his blood. 


Hfkou^ 


i76 


Oh AFTER XXIV 

.V GROUP. 

This conviction now began to liaunt my miiid with all tlie 
punctuality of a shadow. It came to me unconsciously, uncall- 
ed for ; mingled with other thoughts and disturbed them all. 
Whether at my desk, or in the courts ; among men hi the crowd- 
ed mart, or in places sirnply where the idle and the thoughtless 
congregate, it was still my companion. It was, however, still 
a shadow only ; a dull, intangible, half-formed image of the mind ; 
the crude creature of a fear rather than a desire ; for, of a truth, 
nothing could be more really terrible to me than the apparent 
necessity of taking the life of one "^so dear to me once, and still 
so dear to the only friends I had ever known. I need not say 
how silently I strove to banish this conviction. My struggles 
cn this subject were precisely those which are felt by nervous 
men suddenly approaching a precipice, and, though secure, 
flinging themselves off, in the extremity of their apprehensions 
of that danger which has assumed in their imaginations an 
aspect so absorbing. With such persons, the extreme anxiety 
to avoid the deed, whether of evil or of mere danger, frequently 
provokes its commission. I felt that this risk encountered me. 
I well knew that an act often contemplated may be already con- 
sidered half-performed ; and though I could not rid myself of the 
impression that I was destined to do the deed the very idea of 
which made me shudder, I yet determined, with all the remaining 
resolution of my virtue, to dismiss it from my thought, as I re- 
solved to escape from its performance if I could. 

It would have been easy enough for me to have kept this 
resolution as it was enough for me to make it, had it not clashed 
with a superior passion in my mind ; but that blindness of heart 
under which I labored, impaired my judgment, enfeebled my 


17^ CONFESSION^ Cl^ THE BLIND HEART. 

resolution, baffled my prudence, defeated all my faculties of 
self-preservation. I was, in fact, a monomaniac. On one sub- 
ject, I was incapable of thought, of sane reasoning, of fixed 
purpose. I am unwilling to distinguish this madness by the 
word “jealousy.” In the ordinary sense of the term it was not 
jealousy. Phrenologists would call it an undue development 
of self-esteem, diseased by fre][uent provocation into an irritable 
suspieiousness, which influenced all the offices of thought. It 
was certain, to myself, that in instituting the watch which I did 
over the conduct of my wife and William Edgerton, I did not 
CTpect to discover the commission of any gross act which, in the 
vulgar acceptation of the Avorld, constitutes the crime of infidelity. 
The pang would not have been less to my mind, though every 
such act was forborne, if I perceived that her eyes yearned for 
his coming, and her looks of despondency took note of his ab- 
sence. If I could see that she hearkened to his words with the 
ears of one who deferred even to devotedness,* and found that 
pleasure in his accents which should only have been accorded to 
mine. It is the low nature, alone, which seeks for develop- 
ments beyond these, to constitute the sin of faithlessness. Of 
looks, words, consideration, habitual deference, and eager atten- 
tion, I was quite as uxorious as I should have been of the warm 
kiss, or the yielding,, fond embrace. They were the same in my 
eyes. It was for the momentary glance, the passing word, the 
forgetful sigh, that I looked and listened, while I pursued the 
unhappy espionage upon my wife and her lover. That he was 
her lover, was sufficiently evident — how far she was pleased 
with his devotion was the question to be asked and — answered !• 
The self-esteem which produced these developments of jeal- 
ousy, in my own home, was not unexercised abroad. The same 
exacting nature was busy among my friends and mere acquaint- 
ance. Of these I had but few ; to these I could be devoted ; for 
these I could toil ; for these I could freely have perished ! • But 
I demanded nothing, less from them. Of their consideration and 
regard I was equally uxorious as I was of the affections of my 
wife. I was an intensifier in all my relations, and was not wil- 
ling to divide or share my sympathies. I became suspicious 
when I found any of my acquaintance fomiing new intimacies, 
and sunk into reserves which necessarily produced a severance 


A GROUP. 


ITT 


of tlie old ties between up. It naturally followed that iny few 
friends became fewer, and I finally stood alone. But enough of 
self-analysis, which, in truth, ow'cs its origin to the very same 
mental quality wdiich T have been discussing — the presence and 
prevalence of egdisme. Let us hurry our progress. 

My wufe advised me of the visit wliich William Edgerton had 
proposed to the picture collection. 

“ I will go,” she said, “ if you will.” 

“ You must go without me.” 

“Ah, why ? Surely, you can go one morning ?” 

“Impossible. The morning is the time for business. That 
must be attended to, you know.” 

“But you needn’t slave yourself at it because it is business, 
Edward. But that I know that you arc not a money-loving 
man, I should snjjposc, sometimes, from the continual plea of 
business, that you wmre a miser, and delighted in filling old 
stockings to hide away in holes and chinks of the w'all. Come, 
now, Saturday is not usually a busy day with you la^vycrs ; steal 
it this once and go w ith us. I lose half the pleasure of the sight 
always, wdien you are not with me, and Avhen I know' that you 
are engaged in working for me elsewhere.” 

“ Ah, you mistake, Julia. You shall not flatter me into such a 
faith. You lose precious little by my absence.” 

“ But, Edward,! do; believe me — it is true.” 

“ Impossible ! No, no, Julia, when you look on the Carlo 
Dolce and the Guido, you wdll forget not only the toils of the 
husband, but that you have one at all. You wdll forget my harsh 
features in the contemplation of softer ones.” . 

“ Your features are not harsh ones, Edward.” 

“Nay, you shall not persuade me that I am not an Orson — 
a very wdld man of the wmods. I know I am. I know that I 
have harsh features ; nay, I fancy you know it too, by this time, 
Julia.” 

“ I admit the sternness at times, Edw'ard, but I deny the 
harshness. Besides, sternness, you know, is perfectly compati- 
ble with the possession of the highest human beauty. I am not 
sure that a certain portion of sternness is not absolutely neces- 
sary to manly beauty. It seems to me that I have never yet 


1*78 CONFESSION, oil THE BLIND HEARl'. 

Been wliat I call a liandsome man, whose reaUires had not a 
certain sweet gravity, a sort of melancholy defiance, in them 
which neutralized the efi'ect of any effeminacy which mere 
beauty must have had ; and imparted to them a degree of char- 
acter which compelled you to turn again and look, and made you 
remember them, even when they had disappeared from sight. 
Now, it may be the vanity of a wife, Edward, hut it seems to me 
that this is the very sort of face which you possess.” 

“ Ah ! you are very vain of me, I know — very !” 

“ Proud, fond — not vain !” 

“ You deceive yourself still, I suspect, even with your dis- 
tinctions. But you must forego the pleasure of displaying my 
‘ stern beauties,’ as your particular possession, at the gallery 
You must content yourself with others not so stern, though per- 
haps not less beautiful, and certainly more amiable. Edgerton 
will be your sufficient chaperon.” 

“ Yes, but 1 do not wish to he troubling Mr. Edgerton so fre- 
(piently ; and, indeed, I would rather forego the pleasure of 
seeing the pictures altogether, than trespass in this way upon 
his attention and leisure.” 

“ Indeed, but I am very sure you do not trespass upon either. 
Ife is an idle, good fellow, relishes anything better than busi- 
ness, and you know has such a passion for painting and pictures 
that its indulgence seems to justify anything to his mind, lie 
will forget everything in their pursuit.” 

All this was said with a studious indifference of manner. I 
was singularly successful in concealing the expression of that 
agony which was gnawing all the while upon my heart. I could 
smile, too, while 1 was speaking — while I was suffering ! Look 
calmly into her face and smile, with a composure, a strength, 
the very consciousness of whiclu was a source of terrible over- 
throw to me at last. I was surprised to perceive an air of cha- 
grin upon Julia’s countenance, which was certainly unstudied. 
She was one of those who do not well conceal or cloak their real 
sentiments. The faculty of doing so is usually much more 
strongly possessed by women than by men — much more easily 
commanded — but she had little of it. Why should she wear 
this expression of disappointment — chagrin! Was she really 
aixiouG that 1 should attend her? I began to think so — begau 


A GROUP. 


179 


to leleiit, and think of promising that I would go with her, 
when she somewhat ahriiptly laid her hand upon my arm. 

“ Edward, you leave me too frequently. You stay from me 
too long, particularly at evening. Do not forget, dear husband, 
how few female friends I have; how few friends of any sort — 
how small is my social circle. Besides, it is expected of all 
young people, newly married, that they will he frequently to- 
gether ; and when it is seen that they are often separate — that 
the wife goes abroad alone, or goes in the company of persons 
not of the family, it begets a suspicion that all is not w^ell — that 
there is no peace, no love, in the family so divided. Do not think, 
Edward, that I mean this reproachfully — that I mean complaint 
— that I apprehend the loss of your love : oh no ! I dread too 
greatly any such loss to venture upon its suspicion lightly, but I 
Avould guard against the conjectures of others ” 

“ So, then, it is not that you really wish my company. It is be- 
cause you would simply maintain appearances.” 

“ I would do both, Edward. God knows I care as little for 
mere appearances, so long as the substances are good, as you do ; 
but I confess I Avould not have the neighbors speak of me as the 
neglected wife ; I would not have you the subject of vulgai 
reproach.” 

“ To what does" all this tend ?” I demanded impatiently. 

“ To nothing, Edward, if by speaking it I make you angry.” 
I Do not speak it, then !” w'as my stern reply. 

“ I will not ; do not turn away — do not be angry :” here she 
; sobbed once, convulsively ; but wdth an effort of which I had not 
' thought her capable, she stifled the painful utterance, and con- 
j tinned grasping my wrist as she spoke with both her hands, and 
I speaking in a whisper — 

“ You are not going to leave me in anger. Oh, no ! Do not ! 

! Kiss me, dear husband, and forgive me. If I have vexed you, 
*it was only because I was so selfishly anxious to keep you more 
I with me — to be more certain that you are all my own !” 

I I escaped from this scene wdth some difficulty. I should be 
‘doing my own heart, blind and wdlful as it was, a very gross in- 
'justice, if I did not confess that the sincere and natural deport- 
iinent of Julia had rendered me largely doubtful of the good 
iieuse cr the good feeling of the course 1 was pin suing. But th^ 

I 


180 


CONFESSION, Oil THE ELIND HEART. 


effexts of it were temporary only. The very feeling, thus forced 
upon me, that I was, and had been, doing wrong, was a humiliating 
one ; and calculated rather to sustain my self-esteem, even though 
it lessened the amount of justification which my jealousy may 
have supposed itself possessed of. The disease had been grow- 
ing too long within my bosom. It had taken too deep root — 
had spread its fibres into a region too rank and stimulating not 
to baffle any ordinary diligence on the part of the extirpator, 
even if he had been industrious and sincere. It had been grow- 
ing with my growth, had shared my strength from the beginning, 
was a part of my very existence ! Still, though not with that 
hearty fondness which her feeling demanded, I returned her ca- 
resses, folded her to my bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, 
and half promised myself, though I said nothing of this to her, 
that I would attend her to the picture exhibition. 

But I did not. Half an hour before the appointed time I re- 
solved to do so ; but the evil spirit grew uppermost in that brief 
interval, and suggested to me a course more in unison with its 
previous counsellings. Under this mean prompting I prepared 
to go to the gallery, but not till my wife had already gone there 
under Edgerton’s escort. The object of this afterthought was 
to surprise them there — to enter at the unguarded moment, and 
read the language of their mutual eyes, when they least appre- 
hended such scrutiny. 

Pitiful as was this design, I yet pursued it. I entered the 
picture room at a moment which was sufficiently auspicious for 
my objects. They were the only occupants of the apartment. 
I learned this fact before I ascended the stairs from the keeper 
of the gallery, who sat in a lower room. The stairs were carpet- 
ed. I wore light thin pumps, which were noiseless. I may 
add, as a singular moral contradiction, that I not only did not 
move stealthily, but that I set down my feet with greater em- 
phasis than was usual with me, as if I sought, in this way to 
lessen somewhat the meanness of my proceeding. My approach, 
however, was entirely unheard ; and I stood for a few seconds 
in the doorway, gazing upon the parties without making them 
conscious of my intrusion. 

Julia was sitting, gazing, with hand lifted above her eyes, a1 
ft Murillo — a ragged Spanish boy, true e(|ually to the life ami 


A GROUP. 


181 


to the peculiar characteristics of that artist — dark ground- 
work, keen, arch expression, great vivacity, with an air of 
pregnant humor which speaks of more than is shown, and 
makes you fancy that other pictures are to follow in which 
the same boy must appear in different phases of feeding and of 
fortune. 

I need not say that the pictures, however, called for a mo- 
mentary glance only from me. My glances were following my 
thoughts, and they were piercing through the only possible 
avenues, the cheeks, the lips, the tell-tale eyes, deep down into 
the very hearts of the suspected parties. They were so placed 
that, standing at the door, and half hidden from sight by a 
screen, I could see with tolerable distinctness the true exp- 
sion in each countenance, though I saw but half the face. Ju- 
lia was gazing upon the pictures, but Edgerton was gazing upon 
her ! He had no eyes for any other object ; and I fancied, from 
the abstracted and almost vacant expression of his looks, that I 
without startling him from his dream. In his features, speak- 
ing, even in their obliviousness of all without, was one sole, 
absorbing sentiment of devotion. Ilis eyes were riveted with 
a strenuous sort of gaze upon her, and her only. He stood 
partly on one side, but still behind her, so that, without chang- 
ing her position, she could scarcely have beheld his counte- 
nance. I looked in vain, in the brief space of time which I 
employed in surveying them, but she never once turned her 
head ; nor did he once withdraw his glance from her neck and 
cheek, a part only of which could have been visible to him 
where he stood. Her features, meanwhile, were subdued and 
placid. There was nbthing which could make me dissatisfied 
with her, had I not been predisposed to this dissatisfaction ; and 
when the tones of my voice were heard, she started up to meet 
me with a sudden flash of pleasure in her eyes which illumi- 
nated her whole countenance. 

“ Ah ! you are come, then. I am so glad!” 

She little knew why I had come. I blushed involuntarily 
with the conviction of the base motive which had brought mo. 
he immediately grasped my arm, drew me to the contempla- 
tion of those pictures which had more particularly pleased her- 


182 • CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

self, absolutely seeming to forget that there was a third person 
in the room. William Edgerton turned away and busied him- 
self, for the first time no doubt, in the examination of a land- 
scape on the opposite wall. I followed his movement with 
my glance ' for a single instant, but his face was studiously 
averted. 


IHE OLD GOO.SK FINDS A YOUNG GANDRR. 


1S3 




CHAPTER XXV. 

THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER. 

We will suppose some months to have elapsed in this man- 
ner — months, to me, of prolonged torture and suspicion. Cir- 
cumstances, like petty billows of the sea, kept dialing upon the 
low places of my heart, keeping alive the feverish irritation 
which had already done so much toward destroying my peace, 
and overthrowing the guardian outposts of my pride and honor. 
How long the strife was to be continued before the ocean-tor- 
rents should be let in — before the wild passions should quite 
overwhelm my reason — was a subject of doubt, but not the less 
a subject of present and of exceeding fear. In these matters, 
1 need not say that there was substantially very little change 
in the character of events that marked the progress of my do- 
mestic life. William Edgerton still continued the course which 
he had so univittingly begun. He still sought every opportu- 
nity to see my wife, and, if possible, to see her alone. He 
avoided me as much as possible ; seldom came to the office ; 
absolutely gave up his business altogether ; and, when we met, 
though his words and manner were solicitously kind, there was 
a close restraint upon the latter, a hesitancy about the former, 
a timid apprehensiveness in his eye, and a generally-shown 
reluctance to approach me, which I could not but see, and could 
not but perceive, at the same time, that .he endeavored with 
ineffectual effort to conceal. He was evidently conscious that 
he was doing wrong. It was equally clear to me that he lacked 
the manly courage to do right. What was all this to end in ? 
The question became momently more and more serious. Sup- 
pose that he possessed no sort of influence over iny wife ? Even 
suppose his advances to stop where they were at present — his 
course already, so far, was a humiliating indignity, allowing 


J 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


that it became perceptible to the eyes of others. That revela 
tion once made, there could be no more proper forbearance on 
the part of the husband. The customs of our society, the tone 
of public opinion — nay, outraged humanity itself — demanded 
then the interposition of the avenger. And that revelation was 
at hand. 

Meanwhile, the keenest eyes of suspicion could behold noth- 
ing in the conduct of Julia which was not entirely unexception- 
able. If William Edgerton was still persevering in his pursuit, 
Julia seemed insensible to his endeavors. Of course, they met 
frequently when it was not in my power to see them. It was 
my error to suppose that they met more frequently still — that 
he saw her invariably in his morning visits to the studio, which 
was not often the case — and, when they did meet, that she de- 
rived quite as much satisfaction from the interview as himself. 
Of their meetings, except at night, whem I was engaged in my 
miserable watch upon them, I could say nothing. Failing to 
note anything evil at such periods, my jealous imagination j 
jumped to the conclusion that this was because my espionage ^ 
was suspected, and that their interviews at other periods were ^ 
distinguished by less prudence and reserve. And yet, could I 
have reasoned rightly at this period, I must have seen that, if I 
such were the case, there would have been no such display of ) 
empressement as William Edgerton made at these evening visits. I 
Did he expend his ardor in the day, did he apprehend my scru- ^ 
tiny at night, he would surely have suppressed the eagerness ^ 
of his glance — the profound, all -forgetting adoration which j; 
marked his whole air, gaze, and. manner. Nor .should I have p 
been so wretchedly blind to what was the obvious feeling of | 
discontent and disquiet in her bosom. Never did evenings S 
seem to pass with more downright dullness to any one party in 8 
the world. If Edgerton spoke to her, which he did not fre- | 
quently, his address was marked by a trepidation and hesitancy I 
akin to fear — a manner which certainly indicated anytijing but | 
a foregone concliision between them; while her answcJ.s; on tlie f 
other hand, were singularly . cold, meieiy i e])lyii)g, and calcu- 
lated invariably to discourage every tiling like a protracted con- • 
versation. What was said by Edgerton was sufficiently harm- ' 
less — nor harmless merely. It was most commonly mere 


thp: old loose finds a younc; cander. 


185 


ordinary coiiiiiioiiplace, tlie feeble effort of one wlio feels the 
necessity of speech, yet dares not speak the volLiminoiis pas- 
sions which alone could furnish him with energetic and manly 
utterance. Had the scales not been abundantly thick and cal- 
lous above my eyes, how easily might these clandestine scruti- 
nies have brought me back equally to happiness and my senses ! 
But though I thus beheld the parties, and saw the truth as I 
now relate it, there was always then some little trifling circum- 
stance that would rise up, congenial to suspicion, and cloud i. y 
conclusions, and throw me back upon old doubts and cruel jeal- 
ousies. Edgerton’s tone may, at moments, have been more fal- 
tering and more tender than usual; Julia’s glance might some- 
times encounter his, and then they both might seem to fall, in 
mutual confusion, to the ground. Perhaps she sung some little 
ditty at his instance — ^ome ditty that she had often sung for 
me. Nay, at his departure, she might have attended him to the 
entrance, and he may have taken her hand and retained his 
grasp upon it rather longer than was absolutely necessary for 
his farewell. How was I to know the degree of pressure wliich 
he gave to the hand within his own ? That single grasp, not 
unfrequently, undid all the better impressions of a whole even- 
ing consumed in these unworthy scrutinies. I will not seek 
further to account for or to defend this unhappy weakne.ss. 
Has not the great poet of humanity said — 

“ Trifles, light as air, 

Are, to the jealous, confinnations strong 
As proofs of Holy Writ”? 

Medical men tell us of a predisposing condition of the system 
for the inception of epidemic. It needs, after this, but the 
smallest atmospheric changes, and the contagion spreads, and 
blackens, and taints the entire body of .society, even unto death, 
ddie history of the moral constitution is not unanalogous to this. 
The disease, the damning doubt, once in the mind, and the rest 
is easy. It may sleep and be silent for a season, for years, un- 
provoked by stimulating circumstances ; but let the moral atmo 
sphere once receive its color from the .suddenly-passing cloud, 
and the dark .spot dilates within the heart, grows active, and 
rapidly sends its poisonous and poisoning tendrils through all 


186 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the avenues of mind. Its bitter secretions in my soul affected 
all the objeets of my sight, even as the jaundiced man lives 
only in a saffron element. Perhaps no course of conduct on the 
part of my wife could have seemed to me entirely innocent. 
Certainly none could have been entirely satisfactory, or have 
seemed entirely proper. Even her words, when she spoke to 
me alone, were of a kind to feed my prevailing passion. Yet. 
regarded under just moods, they should have been the most con- 
clusive, not simply of her innocence, but of the devotedness of 
her heart to the requisitions of her duty. Her love and her 
sense of right seemed harmoniously to keep together. Gentlest 
reproaches chided me for leaving her, when she sought for none 
but myself. Sweetest endearments encountered my return, and 
fondest entreaties would have delayed the hour of my depart 
lire. Her earnestness, when she implored me not to leave her 
so frequently at night, almost reached intensity, and had a 
meaning, equally expressive of her delicacy and apprehensions. 
Avhich I was unhappily too slow to understand. 

Six months had probably elapsed from the time of Mr. Clif 
ford’s death, when, returning from my office one day, who should 
I encounter in my wife’s company but her mother ? Of this 
good lady I had been permitted to see but precious little since 
m3' marriage. Not that she had kept aloof from our dwelling 
entirely. Julia had always conceived it a duty to seek her 
mother at frequent periods without regarding the ill treament 
which she received ; and the latter, becoming gradually recon- 
ciled to what she could no longer prevent, had at length so far 
put on the garments of Christian charity as to make a visit to 
iier daughter in return. Of course, though I did not encourage 
it, I objected nothing to this renewed intercourse; which con- 
tinued to increase until, as in the present instance, I sometimes 
encountered this good lady on my return from my office. On 
these occasions 1 treated her with becoming respect, tliough 
witliout familiarity. I inquired after her health, expressed my- 
self jdeased to see her, and joined m3" wife in requesting her to 
sta}’ to dinner. Until noWj she usually declined to do so; and 
her manner to myself hitherto was that of a spoiled child in- 
dulging in his sulks. But, this da)"^ to my great consternation, 
she was all smiles and good humor. 


THE OLD GOOSE ElNDS A YOUNG GANDER. 


187 


A cliaiigc so sudden portended danger. I looked to my wife, 
whose grave countenance afforded me no explanation. 1 looked 
to the lady herself, my own countenance no doubt sufficiently 
expressive of the wonder which I felt, but there was little to be 
read in that (quarter which could give me any clue to the mys- 
tery. Yet she chattered like a magpie ; her conversation run- 
ning on certain styles of dress, various purchases of silks, and 
satins, and other stuffs, which she had been buying — a budget 
of which, I afterward discovered, she had brought with her, in 
order to display to her daughter. Then she spoke of her teeth, 
newly filed and plugged, and grinned with frequent effort, that 
their improved condition might be made apparent. Her chat- 
ter was peculiarly that of a flippant and conceited girl-child of 
sixteen, whose head has been turned by premature bringing out, 
and the tuition of some vain, silly, wriggling mother. I could 
see, by my wife’s looks, that there was a cause for all this, and 
waited, with considerable apprehension, for the moment wdien 
we should be alone, in order to receive from her an explanation. 
But little of Mrs. Clifford’s conversation was addressed to me, 
though that little was evidently meant to be particularly civil. 
But, a little before she took her departure, which was soon after 
dinner, she asked me with some abruptness, though with a con- 
siderable smirk of meaning in her face, if I “ knew a Mr. Pat- 
rick Delaney.” I frankly admitted that I had not this jdeas- 
ure; and with a still more significant smirk, ending in a very 
affected simper, meant to be very pleasant, she informed me, as 
she took her leave, that Julia would make me wiser. I looked 
to Julia wdien she was gone, and, with some chagrin, and with 
few wnrds, she unravelled the difficulty. Her mother — the old 
fool — was about to be married, and to a Mr. Patrick Delaney, 
an Irish gentleman, fresh from the green island, wdio had only 
been some eighteen months in America. 

“ You seem annoyed by this affair, Julia ; but how docs it 
affect you ?” 

“ Oh, such a match can not turn out w'ell. This Mr. Delaney 
is a young man, only twenty-five, and wdiat can he see in mother 
to induce him to marry her ? It can only be for the little pit- 
tance of property wdiich she possesses.” 

I shrugged my shoulders w'hil-e replying ; — 


188 CONt'ESSlOJf, on THE liLlKD HEART. 

“ 'Fliore must be some consideration in every marriage-con* 
tract/’ 

“ Ah ! but, Edward, what sort of a man can it be to whom 
money is the consideration for marrying a woman old enough 
to be his mother?” 

“And so little money, too. But, Julia, perhaps he marries 
her as a mother. He is a modest youth, who knows his juve- 
nility, and seeks becoming guardianship. But the thing does 
not concern us at all.” 

“ She is my mother, Edward.” 

“ True ; but still I do not see that the matter should concern 
us. You do not apprehend that Mr. Patrick Delaney will seek 
to exercise the authority of a father over either of us ?” 

“ No ! but I fear she will repent.” 

“ Why should that be a subject of fear which should be a 
subject of gratulation ? For my part, I hope she may repent. 
We are told she can not be saved else.” 

Julia was silent. I continued : — 

“ But whrit brings her here, and makes her so suddenly affa- 
ble with me ? That is certainly a matter which looks threat- 
ening. Does she explain this to you, Julia?” 

“ Not otherwise than by declaring she is sorry for former dif- 
ferences.” . 

“ Ah, indeed ! but her sorrow' comes too late, and I very much 
suspect has some motive. What more? the shaft is not yet 
shot.” 

“ You guess rightly ; slie invites us to the wedding, and in- 
sists that w'e must come, as a proof that wre harbor no malice.” 

“Is that all ?” 

“ All, I believe.” 

“ She is more considerate than I expected. Well, you prom- 
ised her ?” 

“ No ; I told her I could say nothing without consulting you.” 

“ And would you wish to go, Julia ?” 

“ Oh, surely, dear husband.” 

“We will both go, then.” 

A week afterw'ard the affair took place, and w'e w'ere among 
the spectators. 


THE HEaRT-FIENd’s ECHO. 


169 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THK HEART-FIEND FINDS AN ECHO FROM THE FIEND WITHOUT. 

And a spectacle it was ! Mrs. Clifford, about to become Mrs. 
Delaney, was determined that tbe change in her situation should 
be distinguished by becoming eclat. Always a silly woman, 
fond of extravagance and show, she prepared to celebrate an 
occasion of the greatest folly in a style of greater extravagance 
than ever. She accordingly collected as many of her former 
numerous acquaintances as were still willing to appear within 
a circle in which wealth was no longer to be found. Her house 
was small, but, as has been elsew here stated in this narrative, 
she had made it smaller by stuffing it with the massive and 
costly furniture which had been less out of place in her former 
splendid mansion, and had there much better accorded with her 
fortunes. She now still further stuffed it with her guests. Of 
course, many of those present, came only to make merry at 
her expense. Her husband was almost entirely unknown to 
any of them ; and it was enough to settle his pretensions in 
every mind, that, in the vigor of his youth, a really fine-looking, 
woil-made person of twenty-five, he was about to connect him- 
self, in marriage, with a haggard old woman of fifty, whose 
personal charms, never very great, were nearly all gone ; and 
whose mind and manners, the grace of youth being no more, 
were so very deficient in all those qualities which might com- 
mend one to a husband. So far as externals went, Mr. Delaney 
was a very proper man. He behaved with sufficient decorum, 
and unexpected modesty ; and went through the ordeal as com- 
posedly as if the occurrence had been frequently before familiar; 
as indeed hi the sequel, was certahdy the case 

But this does not concern us llV/A .. 


190 


CONFESSION, OR THE CLTNt) HEART. 


Three rooms were thrown open to the company. We had 
refreshments in abundance and great variety, and at a certain 
hour, we were astounded by the clamor of tamborine and fiddle 
giving due notice to the dancers. Among my few social ac- 
complishments, this of dancing had never been included. Nat- 
urally, I should, perhaps, be considered an awkward man. I 
was conscious of this awkwardness at all times when not ex- 
cited by action or some earnest motive. I was incapable of 
that gracefid loitering, that flexibleness of mind and body, 
which excludes the idea of intensity, of every sort, and which 
constitutes one of the great essentials for success in a ball-room. 

It was in this very respect that my friend^ William Edgerton, 
may be said to have excelled most young men of our acquain- 
tance. He was what, in common speech, is called an accom- 
2)lished man. Of very graceful person, without much earnest- 
ness of character, he had acquii-ed a certain fastidiousness of ^ 
taste on the subjects of costume and manners, which, without ^ 
Bruinmcllizing, he yet carried to an extent which betrayed a 
considerable degree of mental feebleness. This somewhat as- 
similated him to the fashionable dandy. He walked with an 
air equally graceful, noble, and unaffected. He was never on 
stilts, yet he was always en regie. He had as little mauvais 
haute as mauvais ton. In short, whatever might have been liis 
deficiencies, he was confessedly a very neat specimen of the fine 
gentleman in its most commendable social sense. 

William Edgerton was among the guests of Mrs. Clifford. 
There had been no previous intimacy between the Edgerton 
and Clifford families, yet he had been specially invited. Mrs. 
C. could have had but a single motive for inviting him — so I 
thought — that of making her evening a jam. She had just 
thnt ambition of the lady of small fashion, who regards the. i 
number rather than the quality of her guests, and would puefer j I 
a saloon full of Esquimaux or Kanzas, and would partake of ;j 
their sea-blubber, rather than lose the triumph of making more ' I 
noise than her rival neighbors, the Sprigginses or Wigginses. 

William Edgerton did not seek me ; but, when I left the side 
of my wife to pay my respects to some ladies at the opposite I 
end of the room, he approached her. A keen pang that ren- 
dered me unconscious of everything I was saying — nay, even. 


THE HEART- fiend's ECHO. 


19i 


of the persons to whom 7. was addressing myself — shot through 
my heart, as I beheld him crossing the floor to the place that I 
had left. Involuntarily, the gracefulness of his person and 
carriage provoked in my mind a contrast most unfavorable to 
me, between him and myself. It was no satisfaction to me at 
that time to reflect that I was less graceful only because I was 
more earnest, more sincere. This is usually the case, and is 
reasonably accounted for. Intensity and great earnestness of 
charact'er, are wholly inconsistent with a nice attention to forms, 
carriage, demeanor. But what does a lady care for such distinc- 
tion? Does she even suspect it? Not often. If she could 
only fancy for a moment that the well-made but awkward man 
who traverses the room before her, carried in his breast a soul 
of such ardency and volume that it subjected his very motion 
arbitrarily to its own excitements, its own convulsions ; that 
the very awkwardness which offended her w^as the result of 
the most deep and passionate feelings — feelings which, like the 
buried flame in the mountain, are continually boiling up for 
utterance — convulsing the prison-house which retained them — 
shaking the solid earth wdth their pent throes, that will not al- 
-ways be pent ! Ah ! these things do not move ladies’ fancies. 
There are very few endowed with that thoughtful pride which 
disdains surfaces. Julia Clifford was one of these few ! But 
I little knew it then. 

The approach of William Edgerton to my wife was a signal 
for my torture all that evening,, From that moment my mind 
was wandering. I knew little what I said, or looked, or did. 
My chat with those around me became, on a sudden, bald and 
disjointed; and when I beheld the pair, both nobly formed — 
he tall, graceful, manly — she, beautiful and bending as a lily 
— a purity beaming, amid all their brightness, from her eyes — 
a purity which, I had taught myself to believe, was no longer 
in her heart — when I beheld them advance into the floor, con- 
spicuous over all the rest, in most eyes, as they certainly were 
in mine — I can not describe — you ’may conjecture — the cold, 
fainting sickness wdiich overcame my soul. I could have lain 
myself down upon the lone, midnight rocks, and surrendered 
myself to solitude and storm for evei% 

They entered the stately measltres of the Spanish dance 


192 


OONFKSSIOXj Oil T-IE BLINT) UFART. 


But tlic grace of rnov('uu*iit wliicli won the niumiuring’ a})plaaso 
of all arouiul ino, only increased tlie agony of iny afflictions, 
I saw tlieir linked arms — the conn)liant, willing movements, of 
their mutual forms — and dark were the images of guilt and 
hateful sus})icion which entered my brain and grew to vivid 
forms, in action before me. I fancied the fierce, j?assionate 
yearnings in the heart of Edgerton ; I trembled when I con- 
jectured what fancies filled the heart of Julia. I can not linger 
over the torturing influence of those moments — moments which 
seemed ages ! Enough that I was maddened with the delirium, 
now almost as its height, which had been for months preying 
upon my brain like some corroding serpent. 

The dance closed. Edgerton conducted her to a scat and 
])laced himself beside her. I kept aloof. I watched them from 
a distance ; and in sustaining this watch, I was compelled to 
recall my senses with a stern degree of resolution which should, 
save my feelings from the detection of those inquisitive glances 
which I fancied were all around me. If I was weakest among 
men, in the disease which destroyed my peace. Heaven knows 
I was among the strongest of men in concealing its expression 
at the very moment when every pulsation of my heart was an 
especial agony. I affected indifference, threw myself into the 
midst of a group of such people as talk of their neighbor’s 
bonnets or breeches, the rise of stocks, or the fall of rain ; and 
hoAv Mrs. Jenkins has set up her carriage, and Mr. Higgins 
has been compelled to set down, and to sell out his. Interest- 
ing details, perhaps, without which the nine in ten might as 
well be tongueless or tongue-tied for ever. This stuff I had t( 
hear, and requite in like currency, while my brain was boiling, 
and dim, but terrible images of strife, and storm, and agony, 
were rushing through it with howling and hisses. There I sat, 
thus seemingly engaged, but with an eye ever glancing covert- 
ly to the two, who, at that moment, absorbed every thought of 
iny mind, every feeling of my heart, and tilled them both with 
the bitterest commotion, l^he glances of their mutual eyes, 
the expression of lip and cheek, I watched with the keenest 
analysis of suspicion. In Julia, I saw sweetness mixed with a 
delicate reserve. She seemed to speak but little. Her eyes 
wandered from her companion — frequently to where T pal — 


THE HEART ECHO. 


193 


but I gave myself due credit, at such moments, for the ability 
with which I conducted my own espionage. My inference— 
equally unjust and unnatural — that her timid glances to my- 
self denoted in her bosom a consciousness of wrong — seemed 
to me the most natural and inevitable inference. And when I 
noted the ardency of Edgerton’s.gaze, his close, unrelaxing at- 
tentions, the seeming forgetfulness of all around which he 
manifested, I hurried to the conclusion that his words were of 
a character to suit his looks, and betray in more emphatic ut- 
terance, the passion which they also betrayed. 

The signal, after a short respite, devoted to fruits, ices, 
was made for the dancers, and William Edgerton rose. I noted 
his bow to ’my wife, saw that he spoke, and necessarily con- 
cluded, that he again solicited her to dance. Her lips moved 
— she bowed slightly — and he again took his seat beside her. 
I inferred from this that she declined to dance a second time. 
She was certainly more prudent than himself. I assigned to 
prudence — to policy — on her part, what might well have been 
placed to a nobler motive. I went further. 

“She will not dance with him,” said the busy fiend at my 
shoulder, “ for the very reason that she prefers a quiet seat be 
side him. In the dance they mingle with others j they can not 
speak with so much ease and safety. Now she has him all h* 
herself.” 

I dashed away, forgetful, gloomily, from the knot by which 
I had been encompassed. I passed into the adjoining room, 
which was connected by folding doors, with that I left. The 
crowd necessarily grouped itself around the dancers, and , t 
a window-jamb, I stood absolutely forgetting where I va. 
alone among the many — with my eye stretching over the 
heads of the flying masses, to the remote spot where my wife 
still sat with Edgerton. I was aroused from my hateful dream 
by a slight touch upon my arm. I started with a painful sense 
of my own weakness — with a natural dread that the secret' 
misery under which I labored was no longer a secret. I writhed 
under the conviction that the cold, the sneering, and the worth 
less, were making merry with my afflictions. I met the gazi. 
of the bride — the mistress of ceremonies — my wife's mother 
Mrs. Delaney, late Clifibrd. J. shuddered as I beheld her 

9 


194 CONFESSION, OiJ THE BLIND HEART. 

glance. I could" not mistake the volume of meaning in hei 
smile — that wretched smile of her thin, withered lips, brimful 
of malignant cunning, which said emphatically as such smile 
cDuld say : — 

“ I see you on the rack ; I know that you are writhing; and 
I enjoy your tortures.” 

I started, as if -to leave her, with a look of fell defiance, roused, 
ready to burst forth into utterance, upon my own face. But she 
gently detained my arm. 

“You are troubled.” 

“No.” 

“ Ah ! but you are. Stop awhile. You will feel better.” 

“ Thank you ; but I feel very well.” 

“ No, no, you do not. You can noj; deceive me. I know 
where the shoe pinches; but what did you expect? Were you 
simple enough to imagine that a woman would be true to her 
husb»and, who was false to her own mother?” 

“ Fiend !” I muttered in her ear. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” was the unmeasured response of the bel 
dame, loud enough for the whole house to hear. I darted from 
her grasp, which would have detained me still, made my way 
' — how I know not — out of the house, and found myself almost 
gasping for breath, in the open air of the street. 

She, at least, had been sagacious enough to find out my secret I 


HKftSLEl?. 


m 


OHAPTER XXVII. 

KINGSLEY. 

Tee fiendish suggestion of the mother, against the purity of 
h<br own child, almost divested me, for the moment, of my own 
rancor — almost deprived me of my suspicions! Could any- 
tiling have been more thoroughly horrible and atrocious ! It 
certainly betrayed how deep was the malignant hatred which 
she had ever borne to myself, and of which her daughter was 
now required to bear a portion. What a volume of human 
depravity was opened on my sight, by that single utterance of 
this wretched mother. Guilt and sin I ye are, indeed, the mas- 
ters everywhere ! How universal is your dominion I How ye 
rage — how ye riot among souls, and minds, and fancies — never 
utterly overthrown anywhere — busy always — everywhere — 
sovereign in how many hapless regions of the heart 1 Who is 
pure among men 1 Who can be sure of himself for a day; — 
an hour 1 Precious few ! None, certainly, who do not distrust 
their own strength with a humility only to be won from prayer 
— prayer coupled with moderate desires, and the presence of a 
constant thought, which teaches that time is a mere agent of 
eternity, and he who works for the one only, will not even be 
secure of peace during the period for which he works. Truly, 
he who lives not for the future is the very last who may reason- 
ably hope to enjoy the blessings of the present. 

But this was not the season, nor was mine the mood, for 
moral reflections of any sort. My secret was known ! That 
was everything. When the conduct of William Edgertcn had 
become such, as to awaken the notice of third persons, T wa^ 


I9d CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 

justified in exacting from him the heavy responsibility he had 
incurred. The vague, indistinct conviction had long floated be- 
fore my mind, that I would be required to take his life. The 
period which was to render this task ‘necessary, was that which 
had now arrived — when it had been seen by others — not inter- 
ested like myself — that he had passed the bounds of propriety. 
Of course, I was arguing in a circle, from which I should have 
found it impossible to extricate myself. Thousands might have 
seen that I was jealous, without being able to see any just cause 
for my jealousy. It was, however, quite enough for a proud 
spirit like my own, that its secret fear should be revealed. It 
did not much matter, after this, whether my suspicions were, or 
vvere not causeless. It was enough that they were known — 
tliat busy, meddling women, and men about town, should dis- 
tinguish me with a finger — should say: “His wife is very 
pretty and — very charitable!” 

“ Ha ! ha 1 ha 1” 

I, too, could laugh, under such musings, and in the spirit of 
Mrs. Delaney — late Clifford. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” The street echoed, beneath the windows 
of that reputable lady, with my involuntary, fiendish laughter. 
I stood there — and the music rang through my senses like the 
cries of exulting demons. She was there — of my wife the 
tJioughts ran thus, she was there, whirling, perchance, in the 
mazes of that voluptuous dance, then recently become fashionable 
among us ; his aim about her waist — her form inclining to his, as 
if seeking support and succor — and both of them forgetting all 
things but the mutual intoxication which swallowed up all things 
and thouglits in the absorbing sensuality of one 1 Or, perhaps, 
still apart, they sat to themselves — her ear fastened upon his 
lips — her consciousness given wholly to his discourse ; and that 
discourse! — “Ha! ha! ha!” — I laughed again, as I hurried 
away from the spot, with gigantic strides, taking the direction 
which led to my own lonely dwelling. 

All was stillness there, but there was no peace. I entered 
the piazza, threw myself into a chair, and gazed out upon the 
lea\ es and waters, trying to collect my scattered thoughts — try- 
ing to subdue my blood, that my thoughts might meet in delibera- 
lion upon the desolating prospect which was then spread before 


KINGSLEY. 


197 


me. But I struggled for this in vain. But one thought was 
mine at that hour. But one fearful image gathered in complete- 
ness and strength before my mind ; and that was one calcula- 
ted to banish all others and baffle all their deliberations. 

“ The blood of William Edgerton must be shed, and by 
these hands ! My disgrace is known ! There is no help 
for it !” 

I had repeatedly resolved this gloomy conviction in my mind. 

was now to receive shape and substance. It was a thing no 
longer to be thought upon. It was a thing to be done ! This 
necessity staggered me. The kindness of the father, the kind- 
ness and long true friendship of the son himself, how could I re- 
cuite this after such a fashion ? How penetrate the peaceful 
home of that fond family with an arm of such violence, as to 
lend their proudest offspring from the parental tree, and, per- 
haps, in destroying it, blight for ever the venerable trunk upon 
which it was borne ? Let it not be fancied that these feelings 
were without effect. Let it not he supposed that I weakly, 
willingly, yielded to the conviction of this cruel necessity — that 
I determined, without a struggle, upon this seemingly neces- 
sary measure ! Verily, I then, in that dreary house and hour, 
wrestled like a strong man with the unhidden prompter, who 
counselled me to the deed of blood. I wrestled with him as the 
desperate man, knowing the supernatural strength of his enemy, 
wrestles with a demon. The strife was a fearful one. I could 
not suppress my groans of agony ; and the cold sweat gather- 
ed and stood upon my forehead in thick, clammy drops. 

But the struggle was vain to effect my resolution. It had 
been too long present as a distinct image before my imagination. 
I had already become too familiar with its aspects. It had the 
look of a fate to my mind. I fancied myself — as probably 
most men will do, whose self-esteem is very active — the victim 
of a fate. My whole life tended to confirm this notion. I was 
chosen out from the beginning for a certain work, in which, my- 
self a victim, I was to carry out the designs of destiny in the 
case of other victims. I had struggled long not to believe this 
— not to do this work. But the struggle was at last at an end. 
I was convinced, finally. I was ready for the work. I was 
resigned lo my fate. But oh ! how grateful once had one of these 


19 » CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

victims seemed in my eyes ! How beautiful, and still bow dear 
was the other ! 

I rose from my seat and struggle, with the air of one strength- 
ened by thoughtful resolution for any act. Prayer could not 
have strengthened me more. I felt a singular degree of strength. 
I can well understand that of fanaticism from my own feelings. 
Nothing, in the shape of danger, could have deterred me from 
the deed. I positively had no remaining fear. But, how was it 
to be done? With this inquiry in my mind, still unanswered, 
I took a light, went into my study, and drew from my escritoir 
the few small weapons which I had in possession. These are 
soon named. One was a neat little dirk —broad in blade, 
double-edged, short — sufficient for all my purposes. I examined 
my pistols and loaded them — a small, neat pair, the present of 
Edgerton himself. This fact determined me not to use them. 
I restored them to the escritoir ; put the dagger between the folds 
of my vest, and prepared to leave the house. 

At this moment a heavy knocking was heard at the gate I 
resumed my seat in the piazza until the servant should report 
the nature of the interruption. He was followed in by my 
friend Kingsley. 

“ I am glad to find you home,” said he abruptly, grasping 
my hand ; “ home, and not -a-bed. The hour is late, I know, 
but the devil never keeps ordinary hours, and men, driven by 
his Satanic majesty, have some excuse for following his ex- 
ample.” 

This exordium promised something unusual. The manner of 
Kingsley betrayed excitement. Nay, it was soon evident he 
had been taking a superfluous quantity of wine. His voice 
was tliick, and he spoke excessively loud in order to be intelligi - 
ble. There was something like a defying desperation in his 
tones, in the dare-devil swagger of his movement, and the almost 
iron pressure of his grasp upon my fingers. I subdued my 
own passions — nay, they were subdued — singularly so, by the 
resolution I had made before his entrance, and was able, there- 
fore, to appear calm and smooth as summer water in his eyes. 

“ What’s the matter ?” I asked. “ You seem excited. No evil, 
1 trust ?” 

“ Evil, indeed ! Not much ; but ^ ven if it were, tell you 




Ned Clifford 1 am just aow in tiie mooi 'o i? 3 /, ' Evil be thoix 
my good !’ 1 have reasc i vo say it r !*nd; by the powers, it will 

not be said onl j, 1 will make evii my good after a fashion of 
my own : luc how much good or how little evil, will he yet an- 
other (Question.** 

I was interested, in spite of myself, hy the vehemence and 
unusual seriousness of my companion’s manner. It somewhat 
harmonize! with my own temper, and in a measure beguiled 
me into a momentary heedlessness of my particular griefs. I 
urged him to a more frank statement of the things that troubled 
him. 

“ Can I serve you in anything I’.’ Avas the inquiry which con- 
cluded my assurance that I was sufficiently his friend to sym- 
pathize with him in his afflictions. 

“ You can serve me, and I need your service. You can serve 
me in two respects : nay, if you do not, I know not which side 
to turn for service. In the first place, then, I wish a hundred 
dollars, and I wish it to-night. In the next place, I wish a 
companion — a man not easily scared, who will follow where 
I lead him, and take part in a ‘ knock down and drag out,’ if 
it should become necessary, without asking the why and the 
wherefore.” 

“ You shall have the money, Kingsley.” 

“ Stay ! Perhaps I may never pay it you again.” 

“ I shall regret that, for I can ill afford to lose any such sum ; 
hut, even to know that would not prevent me from lending you 
in your need. It is enough that you are in want. You tell 
me you are.” 

“I am ; but my wants are not such as a pure moralist, how- 
ever strong might be his friendship, would be disposed to gratify. 
I shall stake that money on the roll of the dice.” 

“ Impossible ! You do not game !” 

“ Time as a gospel ! Hark you, Clifford, and save us the 

homily. I am a ruined man — ruined by the d d dice and 

the deceptive cards. I shall pay you back the hundred dollars, 
but I shall have precious little after that.” 

“ But, surely, I was not misinformed. You were rich a few 
years ago.” 

“ A few months ! But the case is the same. I am poor now. 


200 


Ok the blind heart 


My riclies had wings. I am reduced to my tail-^allicr?) ; but I 
will flourish with these to the last. I have fallen among thieves 
They have clipped my plumage — close! close I They have 
stripped me of everything, but some small mattero which, when 
sold, will just suffice to get me horse or halter. Some dirty 
acres in Alabama, are all I absolutely have remaining of any 
real value. But there is one thing that I may have, if I stake 
boldly for it.” 

“ You will only lose again. The hope of a gamester rises, 
ill due degree, with the increasing lightness of his pockets.” 

“Do not mistake me. I hope nothing from your hundred 
dollars ; indeed, fifty will answer. I propose to employ it only 
as a pretext. I expect to lose it, and lose it this very night. 
But it will give me an opportunity to ascertain what I have 
suspected — too late, indeed, to save myself — that I have been 
the victim of false dice and figured cards. You say you will 
let me have the money — will you go with me— -^iil you see 
me through ?” 

He extended his hand as he spoke, I grasped it. He shook 
it with a hearty feeling, while a bright smile almost dissipated 
the cloud from his face. 

“ You are a man, Clifford ; and now, would you believe it, 
our excellent, immaculate young friend, Mr. William Edgerton, 
refused me this money.” 

“ Strange ! Edgerton is not selfish — he is not ■ From 

that vice he is certainly free.” 

“ By G-d, I don’t know that 1 He refused m^ the money , 
refused to go with me. I saw him at eight o’clock at his own 
room, where he was rigging himself out for gome d d tea- 

drinking ; told him my straits, my losses, my object and all ; 
and what was his plea, think you ? Why, he disapproved of 
gambling; couldn’t think of lending me a sixpence for any 
such purpose ; and, as for going into such a suspected quarter 
as a gambling-house — wouldn’t do it for the world ! Was there 
ever such a puritan — such a humbug !” 

I did William Edgerton only justice in my reply • — 

“ I’ve no doubt, Kingsley, that such are his real principles. 
He would have lent you thric.8 the money, freelj- had not your 
object been avowed.” 


KINGSLEY. 


LOl 

“But what a devil sort of despotism is that! Oant a 
friend get drunk, or game, or swagger ? may he not depart 
from the highway, and sidle into an alley, without souring 
his friend’s temper and making him stingy ] I don’t under- 
stand it at all. I’m glad, at least, to find you are of another 
sort of stuff.” 

“Nay, Kingsley, I will lend'you the money — go with you, 
as you desire ; hut, understand me, I do not, no more than Ed- 
gerton, approve of this gambling.” 

“ Tut, tut ! I don’t want you to preach, though I could hear 
you with a devilish sight better temper than him. There’s a 
hundred things that one’s friend don’t approve of, but shall he 
desert him for all that 1 Leave him to be plucked, and kicked, 
and abandoned; and, moralizing, with a grin over his fate, 
say, ‘ I told you so ! ’ No ! no ! Give me the fellow that’ll 
stand by me — keep me out of evil, if he can, but stand by 
me, nevertheless, at all events ; and not suffer me to be swal- 
lowed up at the last moment, when an outstretched finger 
might save !” 

“ But, am I to think, Kingsley, that my help can do this 1” 

“ No ! not exactly — it may — but if it does not, what then ? 
I shall lose the money, but you sha’n’t. But, truth to speak, 
Clifford, I do not propose to myself the recovery of what ife 
lost. I know I have been the prey of sharpers. That is tc 
say, I have every reason to believe so, and I have had a hint 
to that effect. I have a spice of the devil in me, accordingly 

— a mocking, mortifying devil, that jeers me with my d -d. 

simplicity ; and I propose to go and let the swindlers know, 
in a way as little circuitous as possible, that I am not blind 
to the fact that they have made an ass of me. There will 
be some satisfaction, in that. I will write myself down an 
ass, for their benefit, only to enjoy the satisfaction of kick’ 
ing a little like one. I invite you on a kicking expedi- 
tion.” 

I felt for my dagger in my bosom, as I answered ; “ Very 
good ! Have you weapons ?” 

“ Hickory ! You see ! a moderate axe-handle, that’ll make 
Its sentiments understood You are warned; you see what 

9 * 


202 CONFESSION, (.1 THE BLIND HEART. 

you are to expect. I will not take you in. Are you ready for 
a scratch 

“Allons!” I replied indifferently. The truth is, my bosom 
was full of a recklessness of a far more sweeping character 
than his own. I was in the mood for strife. It promised 
only the more thoroughly to prepare me for the darker trial 
which was before me, and which my secret soul was medita- 
ting all the while wi^ as mteuse ssd gloomy tenacity of 
purpose 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


203 


OHA-^TER XXlfllL 

MORALS 0/ ENTERPRISE. 

I GOT him the money he requiied; and we were about to set 
forth, when he exclaimed abruptly ; — 

** Put money in thy own purse, Clifford. It may be neces- 
sary to practise a little ruse de guerre. In playing my game, 
it may be important that you should iseem to play one also. 
You have no scruples to fling the dice cr fliit the cards for the 
nonce.” 

“ None ! But I should like to know your plans. Tell me, 
in the first place, your precise object.” 

“ Simply to detect certain knaves, and save certain fools. 
The knaves have ruined me, and I make no lamentations ; but 
there are others in their clutches still, quite as ignorant as my- 
self, who may be saved before they are stripped entirely. The 
object is not a bad one ; for the rest, trust to me. I mean no 
harm ; a little mischief only ; and, at most, a tweak of one 
proboscis or more. There’s risk, of a certainty, as there is in 

sucking an egg; but you are a man! Not like that d d 

milksop, who gives up his friend as soon as he gets poor, and 
proffers him a sermon by way of telling him — precious infor- 
mation, truly — that he’s in a fair way to the devil. The toss 
of a copper for such friendship.” 

The humor of Kingsley tallied somewhat with my own. It 
had in it a spice of recklessness which pleased me. Perhaps, 
too, it tended somewhat to relieve and qualify the intenseness 
of that excitement in my brain, which sometimes rose to such 
a pitch as led me to apprehend madness. That I was « 
monomaniac has been admitted, perhaps not a moment ^ o eovs 


:;;04 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

ior tir* author’s candor. The sagacity of the reader made him 
independent of the admission. 

“ Your beggar,” said he, somewhat abruptly, “ has the only 
true feeling of independence. Absolutely, I never knew till 
now what it was to be thoroughly indifferent to what might 
come to-morrow. I positively care for nothing. I am the first 
prince Sans Souci. That shall he my title when I get among 
the Cumanches. I will have a code of laws and constiDition 
to suit my particular humor, and my chief penalties shall be in- 
flicted upon your fellows who grunt. A sigh shall incur a 
week’s solitary confinement ; a sour look, pillory ; and for a 
groan, the hypochondriac shall lose his head ! My prime 
minister shall be the fellow who can longest use his tongue with- 
out losing his temper ; and the man who can laugh and jest 
shall always have his plate at my table. Good-humored people 
shall have peculiar privileges. It shall be a certificate in one’s 
favor, entitling him to so many acres, that he takes the world 
kindly. Such a man shall have two wives, provided he can 
keep them peacefully in the same house. His daughters shall 
have dowries from government. The prince of Sans Souci will 
himself provide for them.” 

I made some answer, half jest, half earnest, in a mood of 
mocking^ bitterness, which, perhaps, more truly accorded with 
the temper of both of us. He did not perceive the bitterness, 
however. 

“You jest, but mine is not altogether jest. Half-serious 
glimpses of what I tell you float certainly before my eyes. 
Such things may happen yet, and the southwest is the world in 
which you are yet to see many wondrous things. The time 
must come when Texas shall stretch to Mexico. These mise- 
rable slaves and reptiles — mongrel Spaniards and mongrel In- 
dians — can not very long bedevil that great country. It must 
fall into other hands. It must be ours ; and who, when that 
time comes, will carry into the field more thorough claims than 
mine. Master of myself, fearing nothing, caring for nothing ; 
with a gallant steed that knows my voice, and answers with 
whinny and pricked ears to my encouragement ; with a rifle 
Uia, i.an clip a Mexican — dollar or man — at a hundred yards, 
a oeart that can defy the devil over his own dish, and wUU 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


20S 


but one spoon between us — and wbo so likely to win bis prin- 
cipality as myself? Look to see it, Clifford , I shall be a prince 
in Mexico ; and when you hear of the prince Sans Souci be 
assured ycni know the man. Seek me then, and ask what you 
will. You have carte blanche from this moment.” 

“ I shall certainly keep it in mind, prince.” 

“ Do so : laugh as you. please ; it is only becoming that you 
should laugh in the presence of Sans Souci ; but do not laugh 
in token of irreverence. You must not be too skeptical. It 
does not follow because I am a dare-devil that I am a thought- 
less one. I have been so, perhaps, but from this manent I go 
to work ! I shall be fettered by fortune no longer. Thank 
Heaven, that is now done — gone — lost ; I am free from its in 
cumbrance ! I feel myself a prince, indeed ; a man, every inch 
of me. This night I devote as a fitting finish to my old lifeless 
existence. 

“Hear me!” he continued; “you laugh again, Clifford — 
very good ! Laugh on, but hear me. You shall hear more of 
me in time to come. I fancy I shall be a fellow of considerable 
importance, not in Texas simply, or in Mexico, but here -here 
in your own self-opinionated United States. Suppose a few 
things, and go along with me while .1 speak them. That Texas 
must stretch to Mexico I hold to be certain. A very few years 
will do that. It needs only thirty thousand more men from 
our southern and southwestern States, and the brave old Eng 
lish tongue shall arouse the best echoes in the city of Monte- 
zuma ! That done, and floods of people pour in from all quar- 
ters. It needs nothing but a feeling of security and peace — a 
conviction that property will be tolerably safe, under a tolerably 
stable government — in other w^ords, an Anglo-Saxon govern - 
in 0 nt — to tempt millions of discontented emigrants from all quar- 
ters of the world. Will this re. 3 ult have no results of its ov/n, 
think you 1 Will the immense resources of Mexico and Texas, 
represented, as they then will be, by a stern, pressing, per- 
forming people, have no effect upon these states of yours? 
They will have the greatest ; nay, they will become essential 
to balance your own federal weight, and keep you all in equi- 
librio. For look you, the first hubbub with Great Britain g’ve% 
you Canada, at he expense of some of your coast-towms, a few 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

milJjons cf treasure, and the loss of fifty thousand men. A 
1: ad exchanfro for the south ; for Canada will make six ponder- 
ous states, u e policy and character of which will he New Eng- 
land all over To balance this you will have your Floiida ter- 
ritory,* of which two feeble states may be made. Not enough 
for your purposes. But the same war with England will render 
it ?aecesfcary that your fleet should take possession of Cuba ; 
which, after a civil apology to Spain for taking such a liberty 
with her possessions, and, perhaps, a few millions by way of 
hush money, you carve into two more states, and, in this man- 
ner, try to bolster up your federal relations. How many of her 
West India islands Great Britain will be able to keep after 
such a war, is another problem, the solution of ' which will de- 
pend upon the relative strength of fleets and success of seaman- 
ohip. These islands, which should of right be ours, and with- 
out which we can never be sure against any maritime power so 
great and so arrogant as England, once conquered by our anus, 
nnd their natural, moral, and social affinities in the southern 
&tates entirely ; and, so far, contribute to strengthen you in 
your congressional conflicts. But these are not enough, for the 
simple reason that the population of states, purely agricultural, 
never / lakes that progress which is made in this respect by a 
■’ommcreial and manufacturing people. With the command of 
ohe gulf the possession of an independent fleet by the Texans, 
the polhlcal characteristics of the states of Carolina, Georgia, 
Floiida, Viabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas, must 
i ndergo certain marked changes, which can only be neutralized 
'’)j the aooption, on the part of these states, of a new policy 
.‘.orresponding with their change of interests. How far the 
cultivation of cotton by Texas will lead to its abandonment in 
Carolina and Georgia, is a question which the next ten years 
must solve. That they will be compelled to abandon it is in- 
evitable, unless they can succeed in raising the article at six 
cents ; a probability which no cotton-planter in either of these 
states will be willing to contejnplate now for an instant. Mean- 
while, Texas is spreading herself right an.d left. She conquers 
the (Jumanches, subdues the native mongrel Mexicans. Her 
Hoestons and Lamars are succeeded by other and abler men, 
* Florida, since admitted, but unhappily, as a single state. 


Morals of enterprise. 


2 ?: 

under whose control the evils of government, which follow ec 
the sway of such small animals as the Guerreros, and the Boli 
vars, the Bustamentes, and Sant’ Annas, are very soon eradi 
cated ; and the country, the noblest that God ever gave to man. 
in the hands of men, becomes a country ! — a great and gloriouc. 
country — stretching from the gulf to the Pacific, and providi* ^ 
the natural balance, which, in a few years, the southern stale 
of this Union will inevitably need, by which alone your grea. 
confederacy will be kept together. You see, therefore, why l 
speed to Texas. Should I not, with my philosophy, my horse, 
and my rifle — not to speak of stout heart and hand — reason 
ably aspire to the principality of Sans Souci? Laugh, if you 
please, hut be not irreverent. You shall have ca?-fe hlancTue, then 
if you will have a becoming faith now, on the word of a prince 
I-say it. It is written — S^ns Souci.”* 

“ Altissimo, excellentissimo, serenissimo !” 

“ Bravissimo, you improve j you will make a courtier — but 
mum now about my projects. We must suppress our dignities 
liere. We are at the entrance of our hell !” 

We had reached the door of a low habitation in a secluded 
street. The house was of wood— -an ordinary hovel of two 
stories. A cluster of similar fabrics surrounded it, most of which, 
I afterward discovered — though this fact could not be con 
jectured by an observer from the street — were connected by 
blind alleys, inner courts, and chambers and passages running 
along the ground floors. We stopped an instant, Kingsley 
having his hand upon the little iron knocker, a single black ring, 
that worked against an ordinary iron knob. 

“ Before I knock,” said he, in a whisper, “ before I knock, 
Clifford, let me say that if you have any reluctance — ” 

“iNone ! none ! knock !” 

“ You will meet with some dirty rascals, and you must not 
only meet them with seeming civility, but as if you shared in 
their tastes — sought the same objects only — the getting of 
money — the only object which alone is clearly comprehensible 
by their understanding.” 

“ Go ahead ! I will see you through.” 

* All these speculations were written in 1840-’41. I need not remark upon 
those which have since been verified. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

A word more ! Get yourself in play at a different table 
ftcm me. You will find rogues enough around, ready to relieTe 
5: ru j.: your Mexicans. Leave me to my particular enemy ; 
yc:i will soon see whose shield I touch — but keep an occasion- 
i .1 eye upon us ; and all that I ask farther at your hands, should 
9 ya see us by the ears, is to keep other fingers from taking hold 
/ mhie ” 

A heavy stroke of the knocker, followed by three light ones 
Slid a second heavy stroke, produced us an answer from within, 
rhe door unclosed, and by the light of a dim lamp, I discover- 
er before me, as a sort of warden, a little yellow, weather-beaten, 
61 in-dried Frenchman, whom I had frequently before seen at a 
fruit-shop in another part of the city. He looked at me, how- 
ever, without any sign of recognition; — with a blank, dull, in- 
different countenance; motioned us forward in silence, and 
reclosing the door, sunk into a chair immediately behind it. I 
followed my companion through a passage which was unfathom- 
ably dark, up a flight of stairs, which led us into a sort of 
refreshment room. Tables were spread, with decanters, glasses, 
and tumblers upon them, that appeared to be in continual use. 
In a recess, stood that evil convenience of most American es- 
tablishments, whether on land or sea, a liquor bar ; its shelves 
crowded with bottles, all of which seemed amply full, and ready 
to complete the overthrow of the victim, which the other appli- 
ances of such a dwelling must already have actively begun. 

“ Here you may take in the Dutch courage, Clifford, should 
you lack the native. This, I know, is not the case with you, 
and yet the novelty of one’s situation frequently overcomes a 
sensitive mind like fear. Perhaps a julep may be of use.” 

“None for me. I need no farther stimulant than the 
mere sense of mouvement. I take fire, like a wheel, by my 
own progress.” 

“ Pretty much the same case with myself. But I have been 
in the habit of drinking here, of late, and too deeply. To-night, 
however, as I said before, ends all these habits. If there is 
honey in the carcass, and strength from the sleep, there is wisdom 
from the folly, and virtue from the vice. There is a moral as 
well as a physical recoil, that most certainly follows the over- 
charge ; and really, speaking according my sincere conviction 


Morals op enterprise. 


m 


I never felt myself to be a better man, than just at this naoment 
when I am about to do that which my own sense of morality 
fails altogether to justify. I do not know that I make you un- 
derstand my feelings ; I scarcely understand them myself ; but 
of this sort they are, and I am really persuaded that I never 
felt in a better disposition to be a good man and a working 
man than just at the close of a career which has been equally 
profligate and idle.” 

I think my companion can be understood. There seem8,^in 
fact very little mystery in his moral progress. I understood 
nim, but did not answer. I was not anxious to keep up the ball 
-.f conversation which he had begun with a spirit so mixed up 
cf contradictions — so earnest yet so playful. A deep sense of 
shame unquestionably lurked beneath his levity; and yet I 
make nc question that he felt in truth, and for the first time, 
that degree of mental hardihood of which he boasted. 

He advanced through the refreshment-room, to a door which 
led to an apartment in an adjoining tenement. It was closed, 
but unfastened. The sound of voices, an occasional buzz, or a 
slight murmur, came to our ears from within ; that of rattling 
dice and rolling balls was more regular and more intelligible. 
Kingsley laid his hand upon the latch, and looked round to me. 
His eye was kindled with a playful sort of malicious light. A 
smile of pleasant bitterness was on his lips. He said to me in 
a whisper : — 

“ Stake your money slowly. A Mexican is the lowest stake. 
Keep to that, and lose as little as possible. You will soon see 
me sufficiently busy, and I will endeavor to urge my labors 
forward, so as to make your purgatory a short one. I shall only 
wait till I feel myself cheated in the game, to begin that which. 
I came for. See that I have fair play in thai, mon amt, and 1 
care very little about the other.” 

He lifted the latch as he conclude i, and I followed him into 
the apartment. 


210 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HELL. 

The scene •that opened upon us was, to me, a painfuUj 
esting one. It was a mere hell, without any of those attra . 
adjuncts which, in a diseased state of popular refinement, si 
as exists in the fashionable atmospheres of London and Pans, 
provides it with decorations, and conceals its more discouraging 
and offensive externals. The charms rf music, lovely women, 
gay lights, and superb drapery and furniture, were here entirely 
wanting. No other arts beyond the single passion for hazard, 
which exists, I am inclined to think, in a greater or less degree 
in every human breast, were here employed to beguile the young 
and unsuspecting mind into indulgence. The establishment into 
which I had fallen, seemed to presuppose an acquaintance, al- 
ready formed, of the gamester with his fascinating vice. It 
was evidently no place to seduce the uninitiate. The passion 
must have been already awakened — the guardianship of the 
good angel lulled into indifference or slumber — before the young 
mind could be soon reconciled to the moral atmosphere of such 
a scene. 

The apartment was low and dimly lighted. Groups of small 
tables intended for two persons were all around. In the centre 
of the floor were tables of larger size, which were surrounded 
by the followers of Pharo. Unoccupied tables, here and there, 
were sprinkled with cards and domino ; Avhile, as if to render 
the characteristics of the place complete, a vapor of smoke 
and a smell of beer assailed our senses as we entered. 

There were not many persons present — I conjectured, at a 
glance, that there might be fifteen ; but we heard occasional 
voices from an inner room, and a small door opening in the reai* 
discovered a retreat like that we occupied, in the dim light of 


THE HELL. 


211 


^■Iiich I pHxeived moving faces and shadows, and Kingsley in- 
‘ormod roe that there were several rooms all similarly occupied 
with onrr. 

An examination of the persons around me, increased the un- 
pleasant feelings which the place had inspired. With the excep- 
tion of a few, the greater number were evidently superior to 
their employments. Several of them were young men like my 
con pM.-on — men not yet lost to sensibility, who looked up with 
Bom^ annoyance as they beheld Kingsley accompanied by a 
stranger. Two or three of the inmates were veteran gamesters, 
t/nu could see that in their business-like nonchalance — their 
rigid muscles — the manner at once demure and familiar. They 
were evidently ^^hahitues deVenfer '^ — men to w'hom cards and 
dice were as absolutely necessary now, as brandy and tobacco 
-.0 the drunkard. These men were always at play. Even the 
smallest interval found them still shuffling the cards, and look- 
ing up at every opening of the door, as if in hungering antici- 
pation of the prey. At such periods alone might you behold 
any expression of anxiety in their faces. This disappeared en- 
tirely the moment that they were in possession of the victim. 
That imperturbable composure which distinguished them was 
singularly contrasted with the fidgety eagerness and nervous 
rapidity by which you could discover the latter; and I glanced 
over the operations of the two parties, as they were fairly 
shown in several sets about the room, with a renewed feeling o 
wonder how a man so truly clever and strong, in some things, 
as Kingsley, should allow himself to be drawn so deeply into 
such low snares ; the tricks of which seemed so apparent, and 
the attractions of which, in the present instance, were obviously 
so inferior and low. I little knew by what inofiensive and 
gradual changes the human mind, having once commenced its 
downward progress, can hurry to the base ; nor did I sufficiently 
allow for that love of hazard itself, in games of chance* which 
I have already expressed the opinion, is natural to the proper 
heart of man, belongs to a rational curiosity, and arises, most 
probably, from that highest property of his intellect, namely, 
the love of art and intellectual ingenuity. It would be- very 
important to know this fact, since then, instead of the blind 
hostility which is entertained foi- sports of this description, by 


212 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

certain claBses of moralists among us, we might so employ Ihf K 
ministry as to deprive them of their hurtfulness and Dit’kc lhd;T» 
permanently beneficial in the cause of good education. 

Kingsley seemed to conjecture my thoughts. A soul 5 of 
lofty significance expressing a feeling of mixed scorn a?»d 
humility, rose upm his countenance — as if admitting Lis >wn 
feebleness, 'while insisting upon his recovered strength. A 
sentence which he uttered to me in a whisper, at this m »n*oi t, 
was intended to convey some such meaning. 

** It was only when thrown to the earth, Clifford, that l;'«o 
wrestler recovered his strength.” 

“That fable,” I replied, “ proves thit he was no god, 
least. Of the earth, earthy, he found strength only in hi 
sphere. The moment he aspired above it the god crushed him 
I doubt if Hercules could have derived any benefit from tb 
same source.” 

“ Ah ! I am no Hercules, but you will also find that I am no 
Antaeus. I fall, but I rise again, and I am not crushed. This 
is peculiarly the source of human strength.” 

“ Better not to fall.” 

“Ah ! you are too late from Utopia. But — ” 

We were interrupted; a voice at my elbow — a soft, clear, 
insinuating voice addressed my companion : — 

“ Ah, Monsieur Kingsley, I rejoice to see you.” 

Kingsley gave me a single look, which said everything, as 
he turned to meet the new-comer. The latter continued ; — 

“ Though worsted in that last encounter, you do not despair, 
I see.” 

“No ! why should I ?” 

“ True, why ? Fortune baffles skill, but what of that ? She 
is capricious. Her despotism is feminine ; and in her empire, 
more certainly than any other, it may be said boldly, that, 
with change of day there is change of doom. It is not always 
rain.” 

“ Perhaps not, but we may have such a long spell of it that 
everything is drowned. * It’s a long lane,’ says the proverb, 
‘ thaf has no turn ;’ but a man be done up long before he gets 
to the turning place.” 

The other replied by some of the usual commonplaces by 


THE HELL. 


oiq 


which, in condescending language, the gamester provokajj Si,ri3. 
stimulates his unconscious victim. Kingsley, howovei, had 
reached a period of experience which enabled him to estimate 
these phrases at their proper worth. 

“ You would encourage me,*’ he said quietly, and in tones 
■which, to the unnoteful ear, would have seemed natural enough, 
but which, knowing him as I did, were slightly sarcastic, and 
containing a deeper signification than they gave out : “ but you 
arc the better player. I am now convinced of that. Some- 
thing there is in fortune, doubtless ; my self-esteem makes me 
willing to admit that ; and yet I do not deceive myself. You 
have been too much for me — you are !” 

“ The difference is trifling, very trifling, I suspect. A little 
more practice will soon reconcile that.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! you forget the practice is to be paid for.” 

“ True, but it is the base spirit only that scruples at the cost 
of its accomplishments.” 

“ Surely, surely !” 

“You are fresh for the encounter to-night?” 

“ Pleasantly put ! Is the query meant for the player or his 
purse ?” 

“ Good, very good ! Why, truly, there is no necessary affinity 
between them.” 

“ And yet the one without the other would scarcely be le 
to commend himself to so excellent an artist as Mr. Latour 
Cleveland. Clifford, let me introduce you to my enemy ; Mr. 
Cleveland, my friend'^ 

In this manner was I introduced. Thus was I made a> 
quainted with the particular individual whom it was the medi- 
tated purpose of Kingsley to expose. But, though thus marked 
in the language of his introduction, there was nothing in the 
tone or manner of my companion, at all calculated to alarm the 
suspicions of the other. On the contrary, there was a sort of 
reckless joviality in the air of abandon, with which he presented 
me and spoke. A natural curiosity moved me to examine 
Cleveland more closely. He was what we should call, in com- 
mon speech, a very elegant young man. He was probably 
thirty or thirty-five years of age, tall, graceful, rather slender- 
ish, and of particular nicety in his dress. All his clothes were 


214 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

disposed with the happiest precision. White kid-gloves covered 
his taper fingers. Withdrawn, a rich diamond blazed upon one 
hand, while a seal-ring, of official dimensions, with characters 
cut in lava, decorated the other. His movements betrayed the 
same nice method which distinguished the arrangement of his 
dress. His evolutions might all have been performed by trum- 
pet signal, and to the sound of measured music. He was evi- 
dently one of t lose persons whose feelings are too little earnest, 
ever to affect their policy ; too little warm ever to disparage 
the rigor of their customary play ; one of those cold, nice men, 
who, without having a single passion at work to produce one 
condition of feeling higher than another, are yet the very ideals 
of the most narrow and concentrated selfishness. His face was 
thin, pale, and intelligent. His lips. were thick, however — the 
eyes bright, like those of a snake, but side-looking, never direct, 
never upward, and always with a smiling shyness in their glance, 
in which a suspicious mind like my own would always find suf- 
ficient occasion for distrust. 

Mr. Cleveland bestowed a single keen glance upon me while 
going through the ordeal of introduction. But his scrutiny 
labored under one disadvantage. His eyes did not encounter 
t- ‘ ! One loses a great deal, if his object be the study of 

Luman nature, if he fails in this respect. 

Much pleasure in making your acquaintance, Mr. Clifford ; 
trust, however, you will find me no worse enemy than your 
friend has done.” 

“ If he find you no worse, he will find himself no better. 
He will pay for his enmity, whatever its degree, as I have done, 
and be wiser, by reason of his losses.” 

“ Ah ! you think too much of your ill fortunes. That is bad. 
It takes from your confidence and so enfeebles your skill. You 
should think of it less seriously. Another cast, and the tables 
chinge. You will have your revenge.” 

I ^viU i ” said Kingsley with some emphasis, and a gravity 
which the other did not see. He evidently heard the words 
only as he had been accustomed to hear them — from the lips 
of young gamesters who perpetually delude themselves with 
hopes based upon insane expectations. A benignant smile 
mantled the cheeks of the gamester. 


THE HELL. 216 

“ Ah, well ! I am ready ; but if you think me too much for 
you — ” 

He paused. The taunt was deliberately intended. It was 
the customary taunt of the gamester. On the minds of half 
the number of young men, it would have had the desired effect 
— of goading vanity, and provoking the self-esteem of the con- 
ceited boy into a sort of desperation, when the powers of sense 
and caution become mostly suspended, and no unnecessary 
suspicion or watchfulness then interferes to increase the diffi- 
culty of plucking the pigeon. I read tlie smile on Kingsley’s 
lip. It was brief, momentary, pleasantly contemptuous. Then, 
suddenly, as if he had newly recollected his policy, his counte- 
nance assumed a new expression — one more natural to the 
youth who has been depressed by losses, vexed at defeat, but 
flatters himself that the atonement is at hand. Perhaps, some- 
thing of the latent purpose of his mind increased the intense 
bitterness in the manner and tones of my companion. 

Too much for me, Mr. Cleveland ! No, no ! You are wil- 
ling, I see, to rob good fortune of some of her dues. You crow 
too soon. I have a shrewd presentiment that I shall be quite 
too much for you to-night.” 

A pleasant and well-satisfied smile of Cleveland answered 
the speaker. 

I like that,” said he ; “ it proves two things, both of which 
please me. Your trifling losses have not hurt your fortunes, 
nor the adverse run of luck made you despond of better suc- 
cess hereafter. It is something of a guaranty in favor of one’s 
performance that he is sure of himself. In such case he is 
equally sure of his opponent.” 

“ Look to it, then, for I have just that sort of self-guaranty 
which makes me sure of mine. I shall play deeply, that I may 
make the most of my presentiments. Nay, to show you how 
confident I am, this night restores me all that I have lost, or 
leaves me nothing more to lose.” 

The eyes of the other brightened. 

“ That is said like a man. I thank you for your warning. 
Shall we begin ]” 

“ Heady, ay, ready !” was the response of Kingsley, as ho 
turned to one of the tables. Quietly laying down upon it tho 


216 


CONFESSION, on THE BLIND HEART. 


short, heavy stick which he carried, he threw off his gloves, and 
rubbed his hands earnestly together, laughing the while without 
restraint, as if possessed-suddenly of some very pleasant and 
ludicrous fancy. 

“ They laugh who win,” remarked Cleveland, with something 
of coldness in his manner. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” was the only answer of Kingsley to this 
remark. The other continued — and I now clearly perceived 
that his purpose was provocation : — 

“ It is certainly a pleasure to win your money, Kingsley — 
you bear it with so much philosophy. Nay, it seems to give 
you pleasure, and thus lessens the pain I should otherwise feel 
in receiving the fruits of my superiority.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” again repeated Kingsley. “Excuse me, 
Mr. Cleveland. I am reminded of your remark, ‘ They laugh 
who win.’ I am laughing, as it were, anticipatively. I am so 
certain that I shall have my revenge to-night.” 

Cleveland looked at him for a moment with some curiosity, 
then called : — 

“Philip!” 

He was answered by a young mulatto— -a tall, good-looking 
fellow, who approached with a mixed air of equal deference 
and self-esteem, plaited frills to a mpst immaculately wdiite 
shirt-collar, a huge bulbous breastpin in his bosom, chains and 
seals, and all the usual equipments of Broadway dandyism. 
The fellow approached us with a smile; his eyes looking alter- 
nately to Cleveland and Kingsley, and, as I fancied, with no 
unequivocal sneer in their expression, as they settled on the 
latter. A significance of another kind appeared in the look of 
Cleveland as he addressed him. 

“ Get us the pictures, Philip — the latest cuts — and bring — 
ay, you may bring the ivories.” 

In a few moments, the preliminaries being despatched* the 
two were seated at a fable, and a couple of packs of cards were 
laid beside them. Kingsley drew my attention to the cards. 
They were of a kind that my experience had never permitted 
me to see before. In place of ordinary kings and queens and 
knaves, these figures were represented in attitudes and costumes 
the most indecent — such as the prolific genius of Parisian 


THE HELL. 


217 


bawdry alone could conceive and delineate. It seems to be a 
general opinion among rogues that knavery is never wholly 
triumphant unless the mind is thoroughly degraded; and for 
this reason it is, perhaps, that establishments devoted to purposes 
like the present, have, in most countries, for their invariable 
adjuncts, the brothel and the bar-room. If they are not in the 
immediate tenement, they are sufficiently nigh to make iLe 
work of moral prostitution comparatively easy, in all its raiiLfi- 
cations, with the young and inconsiderate mind. Kingsky 
turned over the cards, and I could see that while affecting lo 
show me the pictures he was himself subjecting the cards to a 
close inspection of another kind. This object was scarcely per- 
ceptible to myself, who knew his suspicions, and could naturally 
conjecture his policy. It did not excite the alarm of his antagonist. 

The parties sat confronting each other. Kingsley drew forth 
a wallet, somewhat ostentatiously, which he laid down beside 
him. The sight of his wallet staggered me. By its bulk I 
should judge it to have held thousands ; yet he had assured me 
that he had nothing beside, the one hundred dollars which he had 
procured from me. My surprise increased as I saw him open 
the wallet, and draw from one of its pockets the identical roll 
which I had put into his hands. The bulk of the pocket-book 
seeemed scarcely to be diminished. My suspicions were begin- 
ning to be roused. I began to think that he had told me a false- 
hood ; but he looked up at this instant, and a bright manly 
smile on his deep purposeful countenance, reassured me. I felt 
that there was some policy in the business which was not for 
me then to fathom. The cards were cut. A box of dice was 
also in the hands of Cleveland. 

“ Spots or pictures ?” said Cleveland. 

“ Pictures first, I suppose,” said Kingsley, “ till the blood 
gets up. The ivories then as the most rapid. But these pic- 
tures are really so tempting. A new supply, Philip !” 

“ Just received, sir,” said the other. 

“And how shall we begin?” demanded Cleveland, drawing 
a handful of bills, gold, and silver, from his pocket ; “ yellow, 
white, or brown ?” 

It was thus, I perceived, that gold, silver, and paper money/ 
were described. 


10 


218 CO:^FESSION, or the blind heart. 

“ Shall it be child’s play, or — *’ 

“Man’s, man’s!” replied Kingsley, with some impatience 
“ I am for beginning with a cool hundred,” and, to my con- 
sternation, he unfolded the roll he had of me, counted out the 
bills, refolded them and placed them in a saucer, where they 
were soon covered with a like sum by his antagonist. I was 
absolutely sickened, and stared aghast upon my reckless com- 
panion. He looked at me with a smile. 

“ To your own game, Clifford. You will find men enough for 
your money in either of the rooms. Should you run short, 
come to me.” 

Thus confidently did he speak ; yet he had actually but the 
single hundred which he had so boldly staked on the first issue. 
I thought him lost ; but he better knew his game than I. He 
also knew his man. The eyes of Cleveland were on the huge 
wallet in reseiwe, of which the “ cool hundred” might naturally 
be considered a mere sample. I had not courage to wait for 
the result, but wandered off, with a feeling not unallied to terror, 
into an adjoining apartment. 




219 


CHAPTER XXX. 

FALSE DICE. 

Though confounded with what I had s6en of the proceedings 
of Kingsley, I was yet willing to promote, so far as I could, 
the purpose for which we came. I felt too, that, unless I 
played, that purpose, or my own, might reasonably incur sus- 
picion. To rove through the several rooms of a gambling- 
house, surveying closely the proceedings of others, without 
partaking, in how^ever slight a degree, in the common business 
of the establishment, was neither good policy nor good manners. 
Unless there to play, what business had I there ? Accordingly 
I resolved to play. But of these games I knew nothing. It 
was necessary to choose among them, and, without a choice I 
turned to one of the tables where the genius of Roulette pre- 
sided. A motley group, none of whom I knew, surrounded it. 
I placed my dollar upon one of the spots, red or black, I know 
not which, and saw it, in a moment after, spooned up with 
twenty others by the banker. I preferred this form of play to 
any other, for the simple reason that it did not task my own 
faculties, and left me free to bestow my glances on the proceed- 
ings of my friend. But I soon discovered that the contagion 
of play is irresistible ; and so far from putting my stake down 
at intervals, and with philosophic indifference, I found myself, 
after a little while, breathlessly eager in the results. These, 
after the first few turns of the machine, had ceased to be un- 
favorable. I was confounded to discover myself winning. In- 
stead of one I put down two Mexicans. 

“ Put down ten,” said one of the bystanders, a dark, sulky- 
looking little yellow man, who seemed a veteran at these places, 
roil arc in luck — make the most of it.” 

The master of the ceremonies scowled upon the speaker ; and 


220 CONFESSION, OB THE BLIND HEART. 

this determined me to obey his suggestions. I did so, and 
doubled the money ; left my original stake and the winnings on 
the same spot, and doubled that also ; and it was not long before, 
under this stimulus of success, and the novelty of my situation, 
I found myself as thoroughly anxious and intensely interested, 
as if I had gone to the place in compliance with a natural pas- 
sion. I know not how long T had continued in this way, but I 
was still fortunate. I had doubled my stakes repeatedly, and 
my pockets were crammed with money. 

“ Stop now, if you are wise,” whispered the same sulky-looking 
little man who had before urged me to go on more boldly, as he 
sidled along by me for this object ; “ never ride a good horse to 
death. There’s a time to stop just as there’s a time to push. 
You had better stop now. Stake another dollar and you lose 
all your winnings.” 

“ Let the gentleman play his own game, BrinckoflP. I don’t 
see why you come here to spoil sport.” 

Such was the remark of the keeper of the table. He had 
overheard my counsellor. He felt his losses, and was angry. I 
saw that, and it determined me. I took the counsel of the 
stranger. I was the more willing to do so, as I reproached my- 
self for my inattention to my friend. It was time to see what 
had been his progress, and I prepared to leave the theatre of 
my own success. Before doing so, I turned to my counsellor, 
and thus addressed him : “ Your advice has made me win ; I 
trust I will not oifend a gentleman who has been so courteous, 
by requesting him to take my place upon a small capital.” 

I put twenty pieces into his hand. 

“ I am but a young beginner,” I continued, “ and I owe you 
for my first lesson.” 

“You are too good,” he said, but his hand closed over the 
dollars. The keeper of the table renewed his murmurs of dis- 
content as he saw me turn away. 

“ Ah ! bah ! Petit, what’s the use to grumble 1” demanded mv 
representative. “ Do you suppose I will give up my sport for 
yours ? When would I get a sixpence to stake, if it were not 
that I was kind to young fellows just beginning? There; growl 
CO more ; the twenty Mexicans upon the red !” 

The next minute my gratuity was swallowed up in the great 


FALSE DICE. 


221 


gjDOon of the banker. I -w as near enough to see the result. I 
I laced another ten pieces in the hand of the unsuccessful 
garnhler. 

“Very good/’ said he; “very much obliged to you; but. if 
you ^dease, I will do no more to-night. It’s not my lucky night. 
I’ve lost every set.” 

“As you please — when you please.” 

“ You are a gentleman,” he said ; “ the sooner you go home 
the better. A young beginner seldom wins in the small hours.” 

This was said in another whisper. I thanked him for his 
further suggestion, and turned away, leaving him to a side 
squabble with the banker, who finally concluded by telling him 
that he never wished to see him at his table. 

“ The more fool you. Petit,” said BrinckojBf ; “ for the youngster 
that wins comes back, and he does not always win. You finish 
him in the end as you finished me, and what more would you 
have ]” 

The rest, and there was much more, was inaudible to me. I 
hurried from the place somewhat ashamed of my success. I 
doubt whetlier I should have had the like feelings had I lost. 
As it was, never did possession seem more cumbrous than the 
mixed gold, paper, and silver, with which my pockets were bur-# 
dened. I gladly thought of Kingsley, to avoid thinking of my- 
self. It was certain, I fancied, that he had not lost, else how 
could he have continued to play ] My anxiety hurried me into 
the room where I had left him. 

They sat together, he and Cleveland, as before. I observed 
that there was now an expression of anxiety — not intense, but 
obvious enough — upon the countenance of the latter. Philip, 
too, the mulatto, stood on one side, contemplating the proceed- 
ings with an air of grave doubt and uncertainty in his counte- 
nance. No such expression distinguished the face of Kingsley. • 
Never did a light-hearted, indifferent, almost mocking spirit, 
shine out more clearly from any human visage. At times he 
chuckled as with inward satisfaction. Not unfrequently he 
laughed aloud, and his reckless “ Ha ! " ha ! ha !” had more than 
once reached and startled me in the midst of my own play, in 
the adjoining room. The opponents had discarded their “ pic- 
tiures,” They were absolutely rolling dice for their stakes. I 


222 


CONFESSION, on THE BLIND HEART. 


saw that the wallet of Kingsley lay untouched, and quite .ib 
full as ever, in the spot where he had first laid it down. A pile 
of money lay open beside him ; the gold and silver pieces keep- 
ing down the paper. When he saw me approach, he laughed 
aloud, as he cried out : — 

“ Have they disburdened you, Clifford ? Help yourself. I 
am punishing my enemy famously. I can spare it.*’ 

A green, sickly smile mantled the lips of Cleveland. He re- 
plied in low, soft tones, such as I could only partly hear ; and, 
a moment after, he swept the stake before the two, to his own 
side of the table. The amount was large, but the features of 
Kingsley remained unaltered, while his laugh was renewed as 
heartily as if he really found pleasure in the loss. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! that is encouraging ; but the end is not yet. 
The tug is yet to come !” 

I now perceived that Kingsley took up his wallet with one 
hand while he spread his handkerchief on his lap with the 
other. Into this he drew the pile of money which he had loose 
before on his side of the table, and appeared to busy himself in 
counting into it the contents of the wallet. This he did 'with 
such adroitness, that, though I felt assured he had restored the 
^ivallet to his bosom with its bulk undiminished, yet I am equal- 
ly certain that no such conclusion could have been reached by 
any other person. This done, he lifted the handkerchief, full 
as it was, and dashed it down upon the table. 

“ There ! cover that, if you be a man !” was his speech of 
defiance. 

“ How much ?’* huskily demanded Cleveland. 

“All!” 

“ Ah I” 

“ Yes, all. I know not the number of dollars, cents, or six- 
pences, but face it with your winnings : there need be no count- 
ing. It is loss of time. Stir the stuff with your fingers, and 
you will find it as good, and as much, as you have here to put 
against it. On that hangs my fate or yours. Mine for certain ! 
I tell you, Mr. Cleveland, it is all I” 

Cleveland lifted the ends of the handkerchief, as if weighing 
its contents ; and then, without more scruple, flung into it a pile 
not unlike it in bulk and quality : a handful of mixed gold 


FALSE DICE. 


l^^-iper, and silver. Kingsley grasped tlie dice before him, and 
v/iili a single shake dashed them but upon the table. 

“ Six, four, two,” cried Philip with a degree of excitement 
which did not appear in either of the active opponents. Mean 
while my heart was in my mouth. I looked on Kingsley with 
a sentiment of wonder. Every muscle of his face was com- 
posed into the most quiet indifference. He saw my glance, and 
smilingly exclaimed : — 

“ I trust to my stai’, Clifford. Sans Souci — remember!” 

No time was allowed for more. The moment was a breath 
less one. Cleveland had taken up the dice. His manner waa 
that of the most singular deliberation. His eyes were cast down 
upon the table. His lips strongly closed together ; and now it 
was that I could see the keen, piercing look which Kingsley ad- 
dressed to every movement of the gambler. I watched him 
also. He did not immediately throw the dice, and I was con- 
scious of some motion which he made with his hands before he 
did so. What that motion was, however, I could neither have 
said nor conceived. But I saw a grim smile, full of intelligence, 
suddenly pass over Kingsley’s lips. The dice descended upon 
the table with a sound that absolutely made me tremble. 

“ Five, four, six 1” cried Philip, loudly, with tones of evident 
exi,iltation. I felt a sense like that of suffocation, which was 
unrelieved even by the seemingly unnatural laughter of my 
companion. He did laugh, but in a manner to render less 
strange and unnatural that in which he had before indulged. 
Even as he laughed he rose and possessed himself of the dice 
which the other had thrown down. 

“ The stakes are mine,” cried Cleveland, extending his hand 
toward the handkerchief. 

“ No !” said Kingsley, with a voice of thunder, and as he 
spoke, he handed me the kerchief of money, which I grasped 
instantly, and thrust with some difficulty into my bosom. This 
was done instinctively ; I really had no thoughts of what I was 
doing. Had I thought at all I should most probably have re- 
fused to receive it. 

“How!” exclaimed Cleveland, his face becoming suddenly 
pale. “ The cast is mine — fifteen to twelve !” 

“Ay, scoundrel, but the game I played for is mine! As for 


224 


CONFESSION, Oil THE BLIND HEART. 


the cast, you shall try another which you shall relish less. Do 
you see these 1 ” 

He showed the dice which he had gathered from the table. 
The gambler made an effort to snatch them from his hands. 

“ Try that again," said Kingsley, “ and I lay this hickory 
over your pate, in a way that shall be a warning to it for ever." 

By this time several persons from the neighboring tables and 
the adjoining rooms, hearing the language of strife, came rush 
ing in. Kingsley beheld their approach without concern. There 
were several old gamblers among them, but the greater number 
were young ones. 

“ Gentlemen," said Kingsley, “ I am very glad to see you. 
You come at a good time. I am about to expose a scoundrel to 
you." 

“ You shall answer for this, sir," stammered Cleveland, in 
equal rage and confusion. 

“ Answer, shall 1 ? By Jupiter ! but you shall answer too ! 
And you shall have the privilege of a first answer, shall you ?" 

“ Mr. Kingsley, wh'at is the meaning of this ]" was the de- 
mand of a tall, dark-featured man, who now made his appear- 
ance from an inner room, and whom I now learned, was, in fact, 
the proprietor of the establishment. 

“ Ah ! Radcliffe — but before another word is wasted put youi 
fingers into the left breeches pocket of that scoundrel there, 
and see what you will find." 

Cleveland would have resisted. Kingsley spoke again to 
Radcliffe, and this time in stern language, which was evidently 
felt by the person to whom it was addressed. 

“ Radcliffe, your own credit — nay, safety — will depend upon 
your showing that you have no share in this rogue’s practice. 
Search him, if you would not share his punishment." 

The fellow was awed, and obeyed instantly. Himself, with 
three others, grappled with the culprit. He resisted strenuous- 
ly, but. in vain. He was searched, and from the pocket in 
question three dice were produced. 

“Very good," said Kingsley; “now examine those dice, 
gentlemen, and see if you can detect one of my initials, the let- 
ter ‘ K,’ which I scratched with a pin upon each of them." 

The examination was made, and the letter was found, very 


FALSE DICE. 225 

gniall and very faint, it is true, but still legible, upon tlie ace 
square of each of ilie dice. 

“Very good,” continued Kingsley; “and now, gentlemen, 
’with your leave — ” 

He opened liis hand and displayed the three dice with which 
Oleveland had last thrown. 

“ Here you see the dice with which this worthy gentleman 
hoped to empty my pockets. These are they which he last’ 
threw upon the table. He counted handsomely by them ! I 
threw, just before him, with those which you have in your hand. 
I had contrived to mark them previously, this very evening, in 
order that I might know them again. Why should he put 
them in his pocket, and throw with these ? As this question is 
something important, I propose to answer it to your satisfaction 
as well as my own ; and, for this reason, I came here, as you 
see, prepared to make discoveries.” 

He drew from his pocket, while he spoke, a small saddler’s 
hammer and steel-awl. Fixing with the sharp point of the awl 
in the ace spot of the dice, he struck it a single but sudden 
blow with the hammer, split each of the dice in turn, and dis- 
closed to the wondering, or seemingly wondering, eyes of all 
around, a little globe of lead in each, inclining to the lowest 
numeral, and necessarily determining the roll of the dice so as 
to leave the lightest section uppermost. 

“ Here, gentlemen,’* continued Kingsley, “ you see by what 
process I have lost my money. But it is not in the dice alone. 
Look at these cards. Do you note this trace of the finger-nail, 
here, and there, and there — scarcely to be seen unless it is 
shov/n to you, but clear enough to the person that made it, and 
is prepared to look for it. Radcliffe, your fellow, Philip, has 
been concerned in this business.. You must dismiss him, or 
your visiters will dismiss you. Neither myself nor my friends 
will visit you again — nay, more, I denounce you to the police. 
Am I understood?” 

lladcliffe assented without scruple, evidently not so anxious 
for justice as for the safety of his establishment. But it ap- 
peared that there were others in the room not so well pleased 
r/iih the result. A hubbub now took place, in which three or 
four felloW'} made a rush upon Kingsley — Cleveland urging 

10 * 


226 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


and clamoring from the rear, though without betraying much 
real desire to get into the conflict. 

But the assailants had miscalculated their forces. The 
youngsters in the establishment, regarding Kingsley^s develop- 
ment as serving the common cause, were as soon at his side as 
myself. The scuffle was over in an instant. One burly ruffian 
was prostrated by a blow from Kingsley’s club ; I had my share 
in the prostration of a second, and some two others took t » their 
heels, assisted in their progress by a smart application from 
every foot and fist that happened to be convenient enough fcr 
such a service. 

But Cleveland alone remained. Why he had not shared the 
summary fate of the rest it would be difficult to say, unless it 
was because he had kept aloof from the active struggle to which 
he had egged them on. Perhaps, too, a better reason — he was ' 
reserved for some more distinguishing punishment. Why he 
had shown no disposition for flight himself, was answered as ‘ 
soon as Kingsley laid down his club, which he did with a laugh 
of exemplary good-nature the moment he had felled with it his 
first assailant. The flight of his allies left the path open be- 
tween himself and Cleveland, and, suddenly darting upon him, 
the desperate gambler aimed a blow at his breast with a dirk 
which he had drawn that instant from his own. He exclaimed' 
as he struck : — 

“ Here is something that escaped your search. Take this ! 
this !” 

Kingsley was just lifting up the cap, which he had worn that 
night, from the table to his brows. Instinctively he dashed it , 
into the face of his assassin, and his simple evolution saved liimo 
The next moment the fearless fellow had grappled with his en- 
emy, torn the weapon from his grasp, and, seizing him around 
the body as if he had been' an infant, moved with him to an 
open window looking out upon a neighboring court. The victim 
struggled, yelled for succor, but before any of us' could inter- ' 
pose, the resolute and powerful man in whose hold he writhed s 
and struggled vainly, with the gripe of a master, had thrust him 
through the opening, his heels, in their upward evolutions, shat- 
tering a dozen of the panes as he disar^jeared from sight below. 
We all concluded that he was killed. We were in an upper . 


FALSE DICE. 


227 


ehamber, which I estimated to be twenty or thirty feet from 
the ground. I was too much shocked for speech, and rushed to 
the window, expecting to behold the mangled and bloody corpse 
of the miserable criminal beneath. The laughter of Radcliffe 
half reassured me. 

“ He will not suffer much hurt,” said he ; ” there is something 
to break his fall.” 

I looked down, and there the unhappy wretch was seen squat- 
ting and clinging to the slippery shingles of an old stable, unhurt, 
some twelve feet below us, unable to reascend, and very unwil- 
ling to adopt the only alternative which the case presented— 
that of descending softly upon the rank bed of stable-ordure 
which the provident care of the gardener had raised up on 
every hand, the reeking fumes of which were potent enough to 
expel us very soon from our place of watch at the window.. 
Of the further course of the elegant culprit we took no heed. 
The ludicrousness of his predicament had the effect of turning 
the whole adventure into merriment among those who remained 
in the establishment ; and availing ourselves of the clamorous 
mirth of the parties, we made our escape from tlie place with a 
reeling, on my part, of indescribable relief. 


CUNFE8S10K, Oli THB] BLIND HEA^T. 




CHAPTER XXXI 

HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 

“ W ELL, we may breathe awhile,” said Kingsley, as we found 
ourselves once more in the pure air, and under the blue sky of 
midnight. “We have got through an ugly task with tolerable 
success. You stood by me like a man, Clifford. I need not 
tell you how much I thank you.” 

“ I heartily rejoice that you are through with it, Kingsley ; 
but I am not so sure that we can deliberately approve of every- 
thing that we may have been required by tne circumstances of 
the case to do.” 

“ What ! you did not relish the playing ? I respect your 
scruples, but it does not follow that it must become a habit. 
You played to enable a friend to get back from a knave v/lia^. 
he lost as a fool, and to punish the knavery that he could no^. 
well hope to reform. I do not see, considering the amount o* 
possible good which we have done, that the evil is wholly im 
excusable.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but this heap of money which I have in my 
bosom — should you have taken it ?” 

“ And why not ? Whose should it be, if not mine ?” 

“ You took with you but one hundred dollars. I should say 
you have more than a thousand here.” 

“ I trust I have,” said he coolly. “ What of that ? 1 won 

it fairly, and he played fairly, until the lajst moment when 
everything was at stake. His false dice were then called in — 
and would you liave me yield to his roguery what had been 
the fruits of a fair conflict ? No ! • no ! friend of mine ! no ! no ! 
all these things did I consider well before T took you with me 


GAME WAS PLAYED. 


229 


tc-Aiip'ji, „ . .*ve been meditating this business for a week, from 
the mo'- ^_l when a friendly fellow hinted to me that I was the 
victim of knavery.” 

“ But that wallet of money, Kingsley ? You assured me that 
you were pennyless.” 

“Ah ! that wallet bedevilled Mr. Latour Cleveland, as it 
seems to have bedevilled you. There, by the starlight, look at 
the contents of this precious wallet, and see how much furthor 
your eyes can pierce into the mystery of my proceedings.* 

He handed me the wallet, which I opened. To my grea^ 
surprise, I found it stuffed with old shreds of newspaper, bit» 
of rag, even cotton, but not a cent of money. 

“ There ! are you satisfied ? You shall have that wallet, 
with all its precious contents, as a keepsake from me. It will 
remind you of a strange scene. It will have a history for you 
when you are old, which you will tell with a chuckle to yom 
children.” 

“Children!” I involuntarily murmured, while my voic*- 
trembled, and a tear started to my eye. That one word recal- 
led me back, at once, to home, to my particular woes — to all 
that I could have wished banished for ever, even in the un- 
wholesome stews and steams of a gaming-house. But Kings 
icy did not suffer me to muse over my own afflictions. He did 
not seem to hear the murmuring exclamation of my lips. He 
continued : — 

“ I have no mysteries from you, and you need, as well as de- 
serve, an explanation. All shall be made clear to you. The 
reason of this wallet, and another matter which staggered you 
quite as much — my audacious bet of a cool hundred — your 
own disconsolate hundred — as a first stake! I have no doubt 
you thought me mad when you heard me.” 

I confessed as much. He laughed. 

“ As I tell you, I had studied my game beforehand, even in 
its smallest details. By this time, I knew something of the 
play of most gamblers, and of Mr. Latour Cleveland, in partic- 
ular. These people do not risk themselves for trifles. They 
play fairly enough when the temptation is small. They cheat 
only when the issues are great. . I am speaking now of game- 
sters on the big figure, not of the netty chapmen who pule over 


230 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIN.' HEART. 


their pennies and watch the exit of a Mexican, with Lb ; feeiingt 
of one who sees the last wave of a friend’s handkerchief going 
upon the high seas. My big wallet and my hundred aollar bet 
were parts of the same system. The heavy stake at the begin- 
ning led to the inference that I had corresponding resources 
My big wallet lying by me, conveniently and ostentatiously, 
confirmed this impression. The cunning gambler was willing 
that I should win awhile. His policy was to encourage me ; to 
persuade me on and on, by gradual stimulants, till all was at 
stake. Well ! I knew this. All was at stake finally, and I had 
then to call into requisition all the moral strength of which 1 
was capable, so that eye and lip and temper should not fail me 
at those moments when I would need the address and agency 
of all. 

“ The task has been an irksome one ; the trial absolutely 
painful. But I should have been ashamed, once commencing 
the undertaking, not to have succeeded. He, too, was not im- 
pregnable. I found out his particular weakness. He was a 
vain man ; vain of his bearing, which he deemed aristocratic ; 
his person, which he considered very fine. I played with these 
vanities. Failing to excite him on the subject of the game, I 
made himself my subject. I chattered with him freely ; so as 
to prompt him to fancy that I was praising his style, air, appear- 
ance ; anon, by some queer jibe, making him half suspicious 
that I was quizzing him. My frequent laughter, judiciously 
disposed, helped this effect ; and, to a certain extent, I succeed- 
ed. He became nervous, and was excited, though you may not 
have seen it. I saw it in the change of his complexion, which 
became suddenly quite bilious. I found, too, that he could 
only speak with some effort, when, if you remember, before 
we began to play, his tongue, though deliberate, worked pat 
enough. I felt my power over him momently increase ; and I 
sometimes won where he did not wish it. I do verily believe 
that he ceased to see the very marks which he himself had 
made upon the cards. Nervous agitation, on most persons, pro- 
duces a degree of blindness quite as certainly as it affects the 
speech. Well, you saw the condition of our funds when you 
re-appeared. I had determined to bring the business to a close, 
I had marked the dice, actually before his face, while we took 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 


231 


a spell of rest over a bottle of porter. I bad scratched them 
:juietly with a pin which I carried in my sleeve for that pur- 
pose, while he busied himself with a fidgety shuffling of the 
cards. My leg, thrown over one angle of the table, partly cov- 
ered my operations, and I worked upon the dice in my lap. You 
may suppose the etching was bad enough, doing precious little 
credit to the art of engraving in our country. But the thing 
was thoroughly done, for I had worked myself into a rigorous 
sort of philosophic desperation which made me as cool as a cu- 
cumber. To seem to empty the contents of the wallet into my 
lap was my next object, and this I succeeded in, without his 
suspecting that my movement was a sham only. The purse 
thus made up, I emphatically told him was all I had — this was 
the truth — and then came the crisis. His trick was to be em- 
ployed now or never. It was employed, but he had become so 
nervous, that I caught a sufficient glimpse of his proceedings. I 
saw the slight o’hand movement which he attempted, and — you 
know the rest. I regard the money as honestly mine — so far 
as good morals may recognise the honesty of getting money 
by gambling; — and thinking so, my dear Clifford, I have no 
scruple in begging you to share it with me. It is only fit 
that you, who furnished all the capital — you see I say 
nothing of the wallet which should, however, be priceless 
in our eyes — should derive at least a moiety of the profit. 
It is quite as much yours as mine. I beg you so to con- 
sider it.” 

I need not say, however, that I positively refused to accept 
this offer. I would take nothing but the hundred which I had 
lent him, and placed the handkerchief with all its contents into 
his hands. 

“And now, Clifford, I must leave you. You have yet to 
learn another of my secrets. I take the rail-car at day- 
light in the morning. I am off for Alabama; and con- 
sidering my Texan and Mexican projects, I leave you, perhaps, 
for ever.” 

“ So SOOA ?” 

“Yes, everything is ready. There need be no delay. I 
have no wife nor children to cumber me. My trunks arc al- 
ready packed; my resolve made; my last business transacted. 


232 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I liave some lands in Alabama which I mean to sell. This 
done, I am off for the great field of performance, south and 
southwest. You shall hear of me, perhaps may wish to heai 
from me. Here is my address, meanwhile, in Alabama. 
I shall advise you of my further progress, and shall cslcfim 
highly a friendly scrawl from you. If you write, do not fail to 
tell me what you may hear of Mr. Latour Cleveland, and Iioav 
he got down from the muck-heap. Write me all about it, Clif- 
ford, and whatever else you can about our fools and knaves, 
for though I leave them without a tear, yet, d — n ’em, I keep 
’em ill my memory, if it’s only for the sake of the old city whom 
they bedevil.” 

Enough of our dialogue that night. Kingsley was a fellow 
of every excellent and some very noble qualities. We did not 
sympathize in sundry respects, but I parted from him with re- 
gret; not altogether satisfied, however, that there were not 
some defects in that reasoning by which he justified our pro- 
ceedings with the gamblers. I turned from him with a sad, 
sick heart. In his absence the whole feeling of my domestic 
doubts and difficulties rushed back upon me freshly and with 
redoubled force. 

“ Children !” I murmured mournfully, as I recalled one of 
his remarks ; “ children ! children ! these, indeed, were bles- 
sings; but if we only had love, truth, peace. If that damning 
doubt were not there ! — that wild fear, that fatal, soul-petrify- 
ing suspicion !” 

I groaned audibly as I traversed the streets, and it seemed 
as if the pavements groaned hollowly in answer beneath my hur- 
rying footsteps. In a moment more I had absolutely forgotten 
the recent strife, the strange scene, the accents of my friend ; 
all but that one. 

“ Children ! children ! These might bind her to me ; might 
secure her errin^affections ; might win her to love the father, 
when he himself might possess no other power to tempt her to 
love. Ah ! why has Providence denied me the blessing of a 
child 

Alas ! it was not probable that J ulia she ild ever have 
children. This was the conviction of our physician Her 
health and constitution seemed to forbid the hope; and the 


HOW THE OAME WAS ELAYEt). 


233 


gloomy despair under which I suffered was increased by this 
reflection. Yet, even at that moment, while thus I mused and 
murmured, my poor wife had been unexpectedly and prema- 
turely delivered of an infant son-^a tiny creature, in whom 
life was but a passing gleam, as of the imperfect moonlight, 
and of whom death took possession in the very instant of its 
birth. 


2S4 


OOKFKSSIOK. Oil THE BLIND HEART, 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. 

While I had been wasting the precious hours of midnight 
in a gaming-house, my poor Julia had uwdergone the peculiai 
pangs of a mother ! While I had been reproaching her in my 
secret soul for a want of ardency and attachment, she had been 
giving me the highest proof that she possessed the warmest. 
These revelations, however, were to reach me slowly ; and 
then, like those of Cassandra, they were destined to encounter 
disbelief. 

Leaving Kingsley, I turned into the street where my wife’s 
mother lived. But the house was shut up — the company gone. 

I had not been heedful of the progress of the hours. I looked 
up at the tall, white, and graceful steeple of our ancient church,, 
which towered in serene majesty above us ; but, in the imper- 
fect light I failed to read the letters upon the dial-plate. At . 
that moment its solemn chimes pealed forth the hour, as if 
especially in answer to my quest. How such sounds speak to 
ihe very soul at midnight! They seem the voice from Time 
himself, informing, not man alone, but Eternity, of his progress 
to that lone night, in which his minutes, hours, days, and years, 
are equally to be swallowed up and forgotten. 

Sweet had been those bells to me in boyhood. Sad were 
they to me now. I had heard them ring forth merry peals on 
the holydays of the nation ; and peals on the day of national 
mourning; startling and terrifying peals in the hour of mid- 
night danger and alarm; but never till then had they spoken 
with such deep and searching earnestness to the most hidden 
places of my soul. Tliat ‘one, two, three, four,’ which they 


SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. :235 

then struck, as they severally pronounced the thrilling mono- 
tones, seemed to convey the burden of four impressive acts in 
a yet unfinished tragedy. My heart beat with a feeling of 
anxiety, such as overcomes us, when we look for the curtain 
to rise which is to unfold the mysterious progress of the 
catastrophe. 

That fifth act of mine! what was it to he? Involuntarily 
my lips uttered the name of William Edgerton ! I started as 
if I had trodden upon a viper. The denouement of the drama 
at once grew up before my eyes. I felt the dagger in my 
grasp; I actually drew it from my bosom. I saw the victim 
before me — a smile upon his lips — a fire in his glance — an 
ardor, an intelligence, that looked like exulting passion ; and my 
own eyes grew dim. I was blinded; but, even in. the dark- 
ness, I struck with fatal precision. I felt the resistance, I 
heard the groan and the falling body ; and my hair rose, with 
a cold, moist life of its own, upon my clammy and shrinking 
temples. 

I recovered from the delusion. My dagger had been piercing 
the empty air ; but the feeling and the horror in my soul were 
not less real because the deed had been one of fancy only. 
The foregone conclusion was in my mind, and I well knew that 
fate would yet bring the victim to the altar. 

I know not how I reached my dwelling, but when there I 
was soon brought to a sober condition of the senses. I found 
everything in commotion. Mrs. Delaney, late Clifford, was 
there, busy in my wife’s chamber, while her husband, surly with 
such an interruption to his domestic felicity, even at the thresh- 
old, was below, kicking his heels in solemn disquietude in the 
parlor. The servants had been despatched to bring her and to 
seek me, in the first moments of my wife’s danger. She had 
consciousness enough for that, and Mrs. Delaney had summoned 
the physician. He too — the excellent old man, who had as- 
sisted us in our clandestine marriage — he too was there; sad, 
troubled, and regarding me with looks of apprehension and 
rebuke which seemed to ask why I was abroad at that late 
hour, leaving my wife under such circumstances. I could not 
meet his glance with a manly eye. They brought me the dead 
infant — poor atom of mortality — no longer mortal; but J 


236 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

turned away from the spectacle. I dared not look upon it. If 
was the form of a perished hope, ended in a dream ! And such 
a dream ! The physician gave me a brief explanation of the 
condition of things. 

“ Your wife is very ill. It is difficult to say what will hap- 
pen. Make up your mind for the worst. She has fever — has 
been delirious. But she sleeps now under the effect of some 
medicine I have given her. She will not sleep long ; and every- 
thing will depend upon her wakening. She must be kept very 
quiet.” 

I asked if he could conjecture what should bring about such 
an event. “ Though delicate, Julia was not out of health. She 
had been well during the evening when I left her.” 

“ You have left her long. This is a late hour, Mr. Clifford, 
for a young husband to be out. Notning but matter of nece» 
sity could excuse ” 

I interrupted him with some gravity : — 

“ Suppose then it was a matter of necessity — of seeming 
necessity, at least.” 

He observed my emotion. 

“ Do not be angry with me. I assisted your dear wife into 
the world, Clifford. I would not see her hurried out of it. She 
is like a child of my own j I feel for her as such.” 

I said something apologetic, I know not what, and renewed 
my question. 

“She has been alarmed or excited, perhaps; possibly has 
fallen while ascending the stair. A very slight accident will 
sometimes suffice to produce such a result with a constitution 
such as hers. She needs great watchfulness, Clifford ; close 
attention, much solicitude. She needs and deserves it, Clif- 
ford.” 

I saw that the old man suspected me of indifference and 
neglect. Alas ! whatever might be my faults in reference to 
my wife, indifference was not among them. What he had said, 
however, smote me to the heart. I felt like a culprit. I dared 
not meet his eye when, at daylight, he took his departure, 
promising to return in a few hours. 

My excellent mother-in-law was more capable and copious in 
lier details. From her I learned that Julia, though anxious to 


SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. 237 


depart for some time before, had waited for my return until the 
last of her guests were about to retire. Among these happened 
to be Mr. William Edgerton !” 

“ lie offered his carriage, but Julia put off accepting for a 
long time, saying you would soon return. But at last he press- 
ed her so, and seeing everybody else gone, she concluded to 
go, and Mr. Delaney helped her into the carriage, and Mr. 
Edgeilon got in too, to see her home ; and off they drove, and 
it was not an hour after, when Becky (the servant-girl) came 
to rout us up, saying that her mistress was dying. I hurried 
on my clothes, and Delaney — dear good man — he was just 
as quick; and off we came, and sure enough, we found her in 
a bad way, and nobody with her but the servants ; and I sent 
off after you, -^nd after the doctor; and he just came in time 
to help lier ; but she went on wofully ; was very lightheaded ; 
talked a great deal about you ; and about Mr. Edgerton ; I 
suppose because he had just been seeing her home ; but didn’t 
seem to know and doesn’t know to this moment what has hap 
penod to her.” 

I have shortened very considerably the long story which 
Mrs. Delaney made of it. Rambling as it was — full of non- 
sense — with constant references to her “ dear good man,” and 
her party, the company, herself, her fashion, and frivolities — 
there was yet something to sting and trouble me at the core of, 
her narration. Edgerton and my wife linger to the last — 
Edgerton rides home with her — he and she in the carriage, 
alone, at midnight ; — and then this catastrophe, which the 
doctor thought was a natural consequence of some excitement 
or alarm. 

These facts wrought like madness in my brain. Thcii, 
too, ill her delirium she raves of him! Is not that signili 
cant ? True, it comes from the lips of that malicious ol 
woman! she, who had already hinted to me that my wife — 
her daughter — was likely to be as faithless to me as she 
had been to herself. Still, it is significant, even if it be 
only the invention of this old woman. It showed what she 
conjectured — what she thought to be a natural result of these 
practices which had prompted her suspicions as well as my 
own. 


238 ’;; CONFESSION, or the blind, heart. 

How hot was the iron-pressure upon my brain — ^'how keen 
and scorching was that fiery arrow in my soul, when I took 
my place of watch beside the unconscious form of my wife, 
God alone can know. If I am criminal — if I have erred with 
wildest error — surely I have struggled with deepest misery. - 
I have been misled by wo, not temptation ! Sore has been my 
struggle, sore my suffering, even in the moment of my greatest 
fault and folly. Sore ! — how sore 1 


SlriLL THE CLOUD. 


239 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

STILL THE CLOUD. 

For three days and nights did I watch beside the sick bed 
of my wife. In all this time her fate continued doubtful. I 
doubt if any anxiety or attention could have exceeded mine ; 
as it was clear to myself that, in spite of jealousy and suspicion, 
my love for her remained without diminution. Yet this watch 
was not maintained without some trials far more severe and 
searching than those which it produced upon the body. Her 
mind, wandering and purposeless, yet spoke to mine, and re- 
newed all its racking doubts, and exaggerated all its nameless 
fears. Her veins burned with fever. She was fitfully delirious. 
Words fell from her at spasmodic moments — strange, incoherent 
words, but all full of meaning in my ears. I sat beside the bed 
on one hand, while, on one occasion, her mother occupied a 
seat upon that opposite. The eyes of my wife opened upon 
both of us — turned from me, convulsively, with an expression, 
as I thought, of disgust, then closed — while her lips, taking up 
their language, poured forth a torrent of threats and reproaches. 

I can not repeat her words. They rang in my ears, under- 
stood, indeed, but so wildly and thrillingly, that I should find 
it a vain task to endeavor to remember them. She spoke of 
persecution, annoyance, beyond propriety, beyond her powers 
of endurance. She threatened me — for I assumed myself to 
be the object of her denunciation — with the wrath of some one 
capable to punish — nay, to rescue her, if need be, by violence, 
from the clutches of her tyrant. Then followed another change 
in her course of speech. She no longer threatened or de- 
nounced. She derided. Words of bitter scorn and loathing 
contempt issued from those bright, red, burning, and always 


240 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

beautiful lips, wliicb I had never supposed could have given 
forth such utterance, even if her spirit could have been sup- 
posed capable of conceiving it. Keen was the irony which she 
expressed — irony, which so well applied to my demerits in one 
great respect, that I could not help making the personal ap- 
plication. 

“ How manly and generous,” she proceeded, “ was this sort 
of persecution of one so unprotected, so dependent, so placed, 
that she must even be silent, and endure without speech or 
complaint, in the dread of dangers which, however, would not 
light upon her head. Oh, brave as generous !” she exclaimed, 
with a burst of tremendous delirium, terminating in a shriek ; 
“oh, brave as generous! — scarcely lion-like, however, for the 
noble beast rushes upon his victim. He does not prowl, and 
skulk, and sneak, watching, cat-like, crouching and base, in 
stealth and darkness. Very noble, but mousing spirit! Be- 
ware ! Do I not know you now ! Fear you not that I will 
show your baseness, and declare the truth, and guide other 
'eyes to your stealthy practice ? Beware ! Do not drive me 
into madness !” 

Thus she raved. My conscience applied these stinging 
words of scorn, which seemed particularly fitted to the mean 
suspicious watch which I had kept upon her. I could have no 
thought that they were meant for any other ears than my own, 
and the criinson flush upon my cheeks was the involuntary ac- 
knowledgment which my soul made of the demerits of my un- 
manly conduct. I fancied that Julia had detected my espionage, 
and that her language had this object in reference only. But 
there were other words ; and, passing with unexpected transi- 
tion from the language of dislike and scorn, she now indulged 
in that of love — language timidly suggestive of love, as if its 
utterance were restrained by bashfulness, as if it dreaded to be 
heard. Then a deep sigh followed, as if from the bottom of her 
heart, succeeded by convulsive sobs, at last ending in a gushing 
flood of tears. 

For the space of half an hour I had been an attentive but 
suffering listener to this wild raving. My pangs followed every 
sentence from her lips, believing, as I did, that they were re- 
proachful of myself, and associated with -a now unrestrained 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


U1 


esaion of passion for another. Gradually I had ceased, in 
the deep interest which I felt, to be conscicrs that Mrc. Dela- 
ney vas T'*>>scnt. I leaned across the ^ ; i bent my ear 

down Toward the lips of the speaker, eager to drink up every 
feeble sound, which might help to elucidate my doubts, and 
subdue or confirm my suspicions. Then, as the accumulating 
conviction fo.. ed itself, embodied and sharp, like a knife, into 
my soul, I groaned aloud, and my teeth were gnashed together 
in the bitterness of my emotion * In that moment I caught 
the keen gray eyes of my mother-in-law fixed upon me, with a 
jibing expression, T/^hich enoke volumes of mockery. They 
seemed to say, “ Ah ! you have It now ! The truth is forced 
upon you at last ! You can parry it *^0 longer. I see the iron 
in your soul. I behold and enjoy your contortions !” 

Fiend language ! She was something of a fiend ! I started 
from the bedside, and just then a flood of tears came to the re- 
lief of my wife, and lessened the excitement of her brain, 
dlie tears relieved her. The paroxysm passed away. She 
turned her eyes upon me, and closed them involuntarily, while 
a deep crimson tint passed over her cheek, a blush, which 
seemed to me to confirm substantially the tenor of that lan- 
guage in which, while delirious, she had so constantly indulged. 

It did not lessen the seeming shame and dislike which her 
countenance appeared at once to embody, that a soft sweet 
smile was upon her lips at the same moment, and she extended 
to me her hand with an air of confidence which staggered and 
surprised me. 

“ What is the matter, dear husband ? And you here, mother? 
Have I been sick 1 Can it be V* 

“ Hush !” said the motlier. “ You have been sick ever since ^ 
the night of my marriage.” 

“Ah !” she exclaimed with an air of anxiety and pain, while 
pressing her hand upon her eyes, “Ah ! that night !” 

A shudder shook her frame as she uttered this simple and 
short senter e. Simple and short as it was, it seemed to possess 
a strange signification. That it was associated in her mind 
with some circumstances of peculiar import, was sufficiently 
obvious. What were these circumstances ? Ah ! that ques- 
tion ! I ran over in my thought, in a single instant, all that 

11 


^42 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEaKI 


array of events, on th&i, iaiJii niglit which could I'f t’iP.y poc* 
sihility. hsiress me, and confirm my suspicijns. That waltz 
with Edgerton — that long conference between them — that 
lonely ride together from the home of Mrs. Delaney, in a close 
carriage — and the subsequent disaster — her unconscious rav- 
ings, and the strong, strange language which she employed, 
clearly full of meaning as it was, but in which I could discover 
one meaning only ! all these topics of doubt and agitation pas- 
sed through my brain in consecutive order, and with a compact 
arrangement which seemed as conclusive as any final issue, 'i 
said nothing ; but what I might have said, was written in my 
face. J ulia regarded me with a gaze of painful anxiety. What 
she read in my looks must have been troublously impressive. 
Her cheeks grew paier as she looked. Her eyes wandered 
from me vacantly, and I could see her thin soft lips quivering 
faintly like rose-leaves which an envious breeze has half sepa- 
rated from the parent-flower. Mrs. Delaney watched our 
mutual faces, and 1 left the room to avoid her scrutiny. I only 
re-entered it with the physician. He administered medicine to 
my wife. 

“ She will do very well now, I think,” he said to me when 
leaving the house ; “ but she requires to be treated very tender- 
ly. All causes of excitement must be kept from her. She 
needs soothing, great care, watchful anxiety. Clifford, above 
all, you should leave her as little as possible. This old woman, 
her mother, is no fit companion for her — scarcely a pleasant 
one. I do not mean to reproach you; ascribe what I say to a 
real desire to serve and make you happy ; but let me tell you 
that Mrs. Delaney has intimated to me that you neglect your ' 
wife, that you leave her very muct at night ; and she farther 
intimates, what I feel assured can not well be the case, that you 
have fallen into other and much more evil habits.” 

“The hag!” ' 

“ She is all that, and loves you no better now than before.'^ 
Still, it is well to deprive such people of their scandal-monger- ^ 
ing, of the meat for it at least. I trust, Clifford, for your / 
own sake, that you were absent of necessity on Wednesday , 
night.” 

“ It will be enough for me to think so, sir,” was my reply. 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


243 


“ Surely, if you do think so ; but I am too old a man, and too 
old a friend of your own and wife’s family, to justify you in 
taking exception to what I say. I hope you do not neglect 
this dear child, for she is one too sweet, too good, too gentle, 
Clifford, to be subjected to hard usage and neglect. I think 
her one of earth’s angels — a meek creature, who would never 
think or do wrong, but would rather suffer than complain. I 
sincerely hope, for your own sake, as well as hers, that you 
truly estimate her worth.” 

I could not answer the good old man, though I was angry 
with him. My conscience deprived me of the just power to 
give utterance to my anger. I was silent, and he forbore any 
further reference to the subject. Shortly after he took his leave, 
and I re-ascended the stairs. Wearing slippers, I made little 
noise, and at the door of my wife’s chamber I caught a sentence 
from the lips of Mrs. Delaney, which made me forget everything 
that the doctor had been saying. 

“ But Julia, there must have been some accident — something 
must have happened. Did your foot slip % perhaps, in getting 

out of the carriage, or in going up stairs, or . There must 

have been something to frighten you, or hurt you. What 
was it 

I paused ; my heart rose like a swelling, struggling mass in 
the gorge of my throat. I listened for the reply. A deep sigh 
followed ; and then I heard a reluctant, faint utterance of the 
single word, “ Nothing !” 

“ Nothing repeated the old lady. Surely, Julia, there 
was something. Recollect yourself. You know you rode home 
with Mr. Edgerton. It was past one o’clock ” 

“ No more — no more, mother. There was nothing — nothing 
that I recollect. I know nothing of what happened. Hardly 
know where I am now.” 

I felt a momentary pang that T had lingered at the entrance. 
Besides, there was no possibility that she would have revealed 
anything to the inquisitive old woman. Perhaps, had this 
been probable, I should not have felt the scruple and the pang. 
The very questions of Mrs. Delaney were as fully productive 
of evil in my mind, as if Julia had answered decisively on every 
topic. I entered the room, and Mrs. Delaney, after some littl^. 


244 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


lingering, took her departure, with a promise to return again 
soon. I paced tlie chamber with eyes bent upon the floor. 

“Come to me, EdAvard — come sit beside me.” Such were 
the gentle words of entreaty Avhich my wife addressed to me. 
Gentle words, and so spoken — so sweetly, so frankly, as if 
from the very sacredest chamber of her heart. Could it be 
that guilt also harbored in that very heart — that it was the 
language of cunning on her lips — the cunning of the serpent? 
Ah ! how can we think that with serpent-like cunning, there 
should be dove-like guilelessness ? My soul revolted at the 
idea. The sounds of the poor girl’s voice sounded like hissing 
in my ears. I sat beside her as she requested, and almost 
started, as I felt her fingers playing with the hair upon my 
temples. 

“ You are cold to me, dear husband ; ah ! be not cold. I have 
narrowly escaped from death. So they tell me — so I feel ! Be 
not cold to me. Let me not think that I am burdensome to 
you.” 

“ Why should you think so, Julia ?” 

** Ah ! your words ansAver your question, and speak for me. 
They are so few — they have no warmth in them; and then, 
you leave me so much, dear husband — why, why do you 
leave me ?” 

“ You do not miss me much, Julia.” 

“ Do I not ! ah ! you do me wrong. I miss nothing else but 
you. I have all that I had when we were first married — all 
but my husband !” 

“Do not deceive yourself, Julia; these fine speeches do not 
deceive me. I am afraid that the love of woman is a very 
light thing. It yields readily to the wind. Tt does not keep 
in one direction long, any more than the vane on the house-top.” 

“ You do not think so, Edward. Such is not my love. Alas ! 
I know not how to make it known to you, husband, if it be not 
already known ; and yet it seems to me that you do not know it, 
or, if you do, that you do not care much about it. You seem to 
care very little whether I love you or not.” 

I exclaimed bitterly, and with the energy of deep feeling. 

“ Care little ! I care little whether you love me or no I Psha ! 
Julia, you must think me a fool !” 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


245 


It did seem to me a sort of mockery, knowing my feelings as 
I did — knowing that all my folly and suffering came from the 
very intensity of my passion — that I should be . reproached, ty 
its object, with indifference ! I forgot, that, as a cover for my 
suspicion, I had been striving with ail the industry of art to 
put on the appearance of indifference. I did not give myself 
sufficient credit for the degree of success with which I had 
labored, or I might have suddenly anaved at the gratifying con- 
clusion, that, while I was impressed and suffering with the 
pangs of jealousy, my wife was trembling wuth fear that she 
had for ever lost my affections. My language, the natural utter- 
ance of my real feelings, was not true to the character I had 
assumed. It filled the countenance of the suffering woman 
with consternation. She shrunk from me in terror. Her hand 
was withdrawn from my neck, as she tremulously replied > - 

“ Oh, do not speak to me in such tones. Do not look so 
harshly upon me. What have I done ?” 

“ Ay ! ay !” I muttered, turning away. 

She caught my hand. 

*• Do not go — do not leave me, and with such a look ! Ob ! 
husband, I may not live long. I feel that I have had a very 
narrow escape within these few days past. Do not kill me with 
cruel looks ; with words, that, if cruel from you, would sooner 
kill than the knife in savage hands. Oh ! tell me in what have 
I offended ? What is it you think ? For what am I to blame ? 
What do you doubt — suspect?’' 

These questions were asked hurriedly, apprehensively, with 
a look of vague terror, her cheeks whitening as she spoke, her 
eyes darting wildly into mine, and her lips remaining parted 
after she had spoken. 

Ah !” I exclaimed, keenly watching her. Her glance S ink 
beneath my gaze. I put my hand upon her own. 

“ What do I suspect? What should I suspect? Ha!”— 
Here I arrested myself. My ardent anxiety to know the truth, 
led me to forget my caution ; to exhibit a degree of eagerness, 
which might have proved that I did suspect and seriously. To 
exhibit the possession of jealousy was to place her upon her 
guard — such was the suggestion of that miserable policy by 
which I had been governed — and defeat the impression of that 


246 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


reeiing of perfect security and indifference, which I had been 
so long striving to awaken. I recovered myself, with this 
thought, in season to re-assume this appearance. 

^ Your mind still wanders, Julia. What should I suspect ? 
and whom ? You do not suppose me to be of a suspicious 
nature, do you 

“ Not altogether — not always — no ! But, of course, there is 
nothing to suspect. I do not know what I say. I believe I do 
wander.’' 

Tnis reply was also spoken hurriedly, hut with an obvious 
effo) t at composure. The eagerness with which she seized upon 
my words, insisting upon the absence of any cause of suspicion, 
and ascribing to her late delirium, the tacit admissions w'hich her 
look and language had made, I need not say, contributed to 
strengthen my suspicions, and to confirm all the previous con- 
jectures of my jealous spirit. 

“ Be quiet,” I said with an air of sangfroid. “ Do not wony 
yourself in this manner. You need sleep. Try for it, while I 
leave you.” 

“ Do not leave me ; sit beside me, dear Edward. I will sleep 
so much better when you are beside me.” 

“ Indeed !” 

Yes, believe me. Ah ! that I could always keep you be- 
side me!” 

‘What! you are for a new honeymoon 1” I said this in a 
tone of merriment, w^hich Heaven knows, I little felt. 

“Do not speak of it so lightly Edw^ard. It is too serious a 
matter. Ah ! tliat you would always remain with me ; that you 
v/oT.d never leave me.” 

‘ Pshaw ! What sickly tenderness is this 1 Why, how could 
I earn my bread or yours ?” 

‘‘ I do not mean that you should neglect your business, but 
that when business is over, you should give me all your time as 
you used to. Bemember, how pleasantly we passed the even- 
rags after our marriage. Ah ! how could you forget 1” 

“Ido not, Julia.” 

But you do not care for them. We spend no such evenings 
now !” 

“ No ! but it is no fault of mine !” I said gloomily ; then, in- 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


247 


terrnpting her answer, as if dreading that she might utter 
some simple hut true remark, which might refute the interpreta- 
tion which my words conveyed, that the fault was hers, I en- 
joined silence upon her. 

“ You scarcely speak in your right mind yet, Julia. . Be quiet, 
therefore, and try to sleep.” 

“Well, if you will sit beside me.” 

“ I will do so, since you wish for it ; but where’s the need 1” 

“Ah! do not ask the need, if you still love me,” was all sh» 
said, and looked at me with such eyes — so tearful, bright, so sau, 
soliciting — that, though I did not less doubt, I could no longer 
deny. I resumed the seat beside her. She again placed he 
fingers in my hair, and in a little while sunk into a profoima 
slumber, only broken by an occasional sob, which subsided into 
a sigh. 

Were she guilty — such was the momentary suggestion of the 
good angel — could she sleep thus? — thus quietly, confidingly, 
beside the man she had wronged — her fingers still paddling in 
his hair — her sleeping eyes still turning in the direction of his 
face ? 

To the clear, open mind, the suggestion would have had the 
force of a conclusive argument ; but mine was no longer a clear, 
open mind. I had the disease of the blind heart upon m.e, and 
all things came out upon my vision as through a glass, darkly. 
The evil one at my elbow jeered when the good angel spoke. 

“ Fool 1 does she not see that she can blind you still I” Then, 
in the vanity and vexation of my spirit, I mused upon it 
further, and said to myself: — “Ay, but she will find, ere 
many days, that I am no longer to be blinded I” The scales 
were never thicker upon my sight than when I boasted in this 
foolish wise. 


248 


CONFESSION. OR THE BLIND HEART. 


OHAPTEl: XXXIV. 

A father’s griefs. 

Ske - .^111111110(1 to improve, but slowly. Her organization 
was always very delicate. Her frame was becoming thin, al- 
most to meagreness ; and this last disaster, whatever might be 
its cause, had contributed still more to weaken a constitution 
which education and nature had never prepared for much hard 
encounter. But, though I saw these proofs of feebleness — of 
a feebleness that might have occasioned reasonable apprehen 
sions of premature decay, and possibly very rapid decline — 
there were little circumstances constantly occurring — looks 
shown, words spoken — which kept up the irritation of my soul, 
and prevented me from doing justice to her enfeebled condi- 
tion. My sympathies were absorbed in my suspicions. My 
heart was the debateable land of seif. The blind passion 
which enslaved it, I need scarce say, was of a nature so potent, 
that it could easily impregnate, with its own color, all the ob- 
jects of its survey. Seen through the eyes of suspicion, there 
is no truth, no virtue ; the smile is that of the snake ; the tear, 
that of the crocodile ; the assurance, that of the traitor. There 
is no act, look, word, of the suspected object, however innocent, 
which, to the diseased mind of jealousy, does not suggest con- 
jectures and arguments, all conclusive or confirmatory of its 
doubts and fears. It is not necessary to say that I shrunk from 
J ulia’s endearment, requited her smiles with indifference ; and, 
though I did not avoid her presence — I could not, in the few 
days when her case was doubtful — yet exhibited, in all respects, 
the conduct of one who was in a sort of Coventry. 

But one fact may be stated — one of many — which seemed to 


A father’s grief. 


249 


give a sanction to my suspicions, will help to justify my course, 
and which, at the time, was terribly conclusive, to my reason, 
of the things which I feared. She spoke audibly the name of 
Edgerton, twice, thrice, while she slept beside me, in tones very 
faint, it is true, but still distinct enough. The faintness of her 
utterance, gave the tones an emphasis of tenderness which per- 
haps was unintended. Twice, thrice, that fatal name ; and then, 
what a sigh from the full volume of a surcharged heart. Let 
any one conceive my situation — with my feelings, intense on all 
subjects — my suspicions already so thoroughly awakened; and 
then fancy what they must have been on hearing that utterance ; 
from the unguarded lips of slumber ; from the wife lying beside 
him ; and of the name of him on whom suspicion already rested. 
I hung over the sleeper, breathless, almost gasping, finally, in 
the effort to contain my breath — in the hope to hear something, 
however slight, which was to confirm finally, or finally end my 
doubts. I heard no more ; but did more seem to be necessary ? 
What jealous heart had not found this sufficiently conclusive ? 
And that deep-drawn sigh, sobbing, as of a heart breaking with 
the deferred hope, and the dream of youth baffled at one sweep- 
ing, severing blow. 

I rose. I could no longer subdue my emotions to the neces- 
sary degree of watchfulness. I trod the chamber till daylight. 
Then, 1 dressed myself and went out into the street. I had no 
distinct object. A vague persuasion only, that I must do some- 
thing — that something must be done — that, in short, it was 
necessary to force this exhausting drama to its fit conclusion. 
Of course William Edgerton was my object. As yet, how to 
bring about the issue, was a problem which my mind was not 
prepared to solve. Whether I was to stab or shoot him ; 
whether we were to go through the tedious processes of the duel ; 
to undergo the fatigue of preliminaries, or to shorten them by 
sudden rencounter ; these were topics which filled my thoughts 
confusedly ; upon which I had no clear conviction ; not because 
I did not attempt to fix upon a course, but from a sheer in- 
ability to think at all. My whole brain was on fire ; a chaotic 
mass, such as rushes up from the unstopped vents of the vol- 
cano — fire, stones, and lava — but dense smoke enveloping the 
VI hole 


250 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

In this frame of mind I hurried through the streets. The 
shops were yet unopened. The sun was just about to rise. 
There was a humming sound, like that of distant waters mur- 
miiriiig along the shore, which filled my ears ; but otherwise 
everything was silent. Sleep had not withdrawn with night 
from his stealthy watch upon the household. It seemed to me 
that I alone could not sleep. Even guilt — if my wife were 
really guilty — even guilt could sleep. I left her sleeping, and 
how sweetly ! as if the dream which had made her sob and sigh, 
had been succeeded by others, that made all smiles again. I 
could not sleep, and yet, who, but a few months before, had 
been possessed of such fair prospects of peace and prosperity ? 
Fortune held forth sufficient promise; fame — so far as fame can 
be accorded by a small community — had done something to- 
ward giving me an honorable repute; and love — had not love 
been seemingly as liberal and prompt as ever young passions 
could have desired? I was making money; I was getting 
reputation ; the only woman whom I had ever loved or sought, 
was mine ; and mine, too, in spite of opposition and discourage- 
ments which would have chilled the ardor of half the lovers 
in the Avorld. And yet I was not happy. It takes so small an 
amount of annoyance to produce misery in the heart of self- 
esteem, when united with suspicion, that it was scarcely pos- 
sible that I should be happy. Such a man has a taste for self- 
torture ; as one troubled with an irritating humor, is never at 
rest, unless he is tearing the flesh into a sore ; he may then rest 
as he may. 

I took the way to my office. It was no^ often that I went 
thither before breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in 
the habit of doing so. He lived in the neighborhood, and his 
father had taught him this habit during the period when he was 
employed in studying the profession. It might be that I should 
find him there on the present occasion. Such was my notion. 
What farther thought I had I know not ; but a vague suggestion 
that, in that quiet hour — there — without eye to see, or hand to 
interpose, I might drag from his heart the fearful secret — I 
might compel confession, take my vengeance, and rid myself 
finally of that cruel agony which was making me its miserable 
puppet. Crude, wild notions these, but very natural. 


A father’s grief. 


251 


I turned tlie ^corner of the street. The window of my office 
was open. “ He is then there,” I muttered to myself ; and my 
teeth clutched each other closely. I buttoned my coat. My 
heart was swelling. I looked around me, and up to the win- 
dows. The street was very silent — the grave not more so. I 
strode rapidly across, threw open the door of the office which 
stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I sought, but his 
venerable father. 

The sight of that wffiite-headed old man filled me with a 
sense of shame and degradation. What had he not done for 
me ? How great his assistance, how kind his regards, how 
liberal his offices. He had rescued me from the bondage of 
povei’ty. lie had put forth the hand of help, with a manly 
grasp of succor at the very moment when it was most needed ; 
had helped to make me what I was; and, for all these, I had 
come to put to death his only son. A revulsion of feeling took 
place within my bosom. These thoughts were instantaneous — 
a sort of liglitning-flash from the moral world of thought. I 
stood abashed ; brought to my senses in an instant, and was 
scarcely able to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood 
before him with the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a 
culprit. Fortunately, he did not perceive my confusion. Poor 
old man ! Cares of his own — cares of a father, too completely 
occupied his mind, to suffer his senses to discharge their duties 
with freedom. 

“I am glad to see you, Clififordf* though I did not expect it. 
Young men of the present day are not apt to rise so early.” 

“ I must confess, sir, it is not my habit.” 

“ Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, 
may be considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the 
past, though they are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt 
from such necessities as encountered their fathers. Their tasks 
are fewer — their labor is lighter ” 

“ Are their cares the lighter in consequence ?” I demanded. 

“ That is the question, ” he replied. “ For myself, I think 
not. They grow gray the sooner. They have fewer tasks, but 
heavier troubles. They live better in some respects. They 
liave luxuries which, in my day, youth were scarcely permitted 
to enjoy ; and which, indeed, were not often enjoyed by age. 


252 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


But they have little peace: — and, look at the bankruptcies of 
our city. They are without number — they produce no shame 

— do not seem to affect the credit of the parties ; and, certainly, 
in no respect diminish their expenditures. They live as if the 
present day were the last they had to live ; and living thus, 
they must live dishonestly. It is inevitable. The moral sense 
is certainly in a much lower condition in our country, than 1 
have ever known it. What can be the reason 

“ The facility of procuring money, perhaps. Money is the 
most dangerous of human possessions.” 

“ There can be none other. Clifford !” 

“ Sir.” 

“I change the subiect abruptly. Have you seen my son 
lately, Clifford]” 

The question was solemnly, suddenly spoken. It staggered 
me. What could it mean ] That there was a meaning in it — 
a deep meaning — was unquestionable. But of what nature? 
Did the venerable man suspect my secret — could he by any 
chance conjecture my purpose ? It is one quality of a mind not 
exactly satisfied of the propriety of its proceedings, to be sus- 
picious of all things and persons — to fancy that the conscious- 
ness which distresses itself, is also the consciousness of its 
neighbors. Hence the blush upon the cheek — the faltering 
accents — the tremulousness of limb, and feebleness of move- 
ment. For a moment after the old man spoke — troubled with 
this consciousness, I could not answer. But my self-esteem 
same to my relief — nay, it had sufilced to conceal my disquiet. 
My looks were subdued to a seeming calm — my voice was un- 
Droken, while I answered : — 

“I have seen him within a few days, sir — a few nights ago 
we were at Mrs. Delaney’s party. But why the question, sir ? 

— what troubles you ?” 

“ Strange that you have not seen ! Did you not remark the 
alteration in his appearance ?” 

“ I must confess, sir, I did not ; but, perhaps, I did not remark 
him closely among the crowd.” 

“ He is altered — terribly altered, Clifford. It is very strange 
that you have not seen it. It is visible to myself — his mother 
-—all the family, and some of its friends. We tremble for his 


A father’s grief. 


253 


life. He is a mere skeleton — moves without life or animation, 
feebly- — his cheeks are pale and thin, his lips white, and his 
eyes have an appearance which, beyond anything besides, dis- 
tresses me — either lifelessly dull, or suddenly flushed up with 
an expression of wildness, which occurs so suddenly as to dis- 
tress us with the worst apprehensions of his sanity.” 

“ Indeed, sir !” I exclaimed with natural surprise. 

“ So it appears to us, his mother and myself, though, as it has 
escaped your eyes, I trust that we have exaggerated it. That 
we have not imagined all of it, however, we have other proofs 
to show. His manner is changed of late, and most of his habits. 
The change is only within the last six months ; so suddenly 
made that it has been forced upon our sight. Once so frank, he 
is now reserved and shrinking to the last degree ; speaks little ; 
is reluctant to converse ; and, I am compelled to believe, not 
only avoids my glance, but fears it.” 

“ It is very strange that he should do so, sir. I can think of 
no reason why he should avoid your glance. 0«?. yo!r,\ ei£ % 
Have you any suspicions ?” 

I have.” 

“ Ha ! have you indeed ?” 

The old man drew his chair closer te 'Zie, -aidv putting hio 
hand on mine, with eyes in which the tears, big, slow-gathering, 
began to fill — trickling bX length, one by one, through the 
venerable furrows of his cheeks- he replied in faltering ac- 
cents : — 

“ A terrible suspicion, Clifford. I am afraid he drinks ; that 
he frequents gambling-houses ; that, in short, he is about to be 
lost to us, body and soul, for ever.” 

Deep and touching was the groan that followed from that old 
man’s bosom. I hastened to relieve him, 

' I am sure, sir, that you do your son great injustice. I can- 
not conceive it possiole that he should have fallen into these 
habitr. ” 

He :s cut night / — la e- — till near daylight. But two hours 
ago he returned home. Let me confess to you, Clifford, what I 
should be loath to confess to anybody else. I followed him 
last night. He took the path to the suburbs, and I kept him in 
sight almost till he reached your dwelling. Then I lost him 


254 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

He moved too rapidly then for my old limbs, and disappeared 
among those groves of wild orange that fill your neighborhood. 
I searched them as closely as I could in the imperfect starlight, 
but could see nothing of him. I am told that there are gam- 
bling-houses, notorious enough, in the suburbs just beyond you. 
I fear that he found shelter in these — that he finds shelter in 
them nightly.” 

I scarcely breathed while listening to. the unhappy father’s 
narrative. There was one portion of it to which I need not 
refer the reader, as calculated to confirm my own previous con- 
victions. I struggled with my feelings, however, in respect for 
his. I kept them down and spoke. 

“ In this one fact, Mr. Edgerton, I see nothing to alarm you. 
Your son may have been engaged far more innocently than you 
imagine. He is young — you know too well the practices of 
young men. As for the drinking he is perhaps the very last 
pt:"son whom I should suspect of excess. I have always thought 
his !,emperapce unquestionable.” 

“ Until recently, I should have had no fears myself. But 
connecting one fact with another — his absence all night, nightly 
— the stealthiness with which he departs from home after the 
ihmily has retired — u:xe stealthiness with which he returns just 
before day — his visible agitation when addressed — and, oh 
Clifford ! worst of all signs, the stirinking of his eye beneath 
mine and his mother’s — the fear to meet, and the effort to 
avoid us — these are the signs which most pain me, and excite 
my apprehensions But look at his face and figure also. The 
haggard misery of the one, sign of sleeplessness and late watch- 
ing — the attenuated feebleness of the other, showing the effects 
of some practices, no matter of what particular sort, which are 
undermining his constitution, and rapidly tending to destroy 
him. If you but look in his eye as I have done, marking its 
wildness, its wandering, its sensible expression of shame — yoi. 
can hardly fail to think with me that something is morally 
wrong. He is guilty ” 

‘‘ He is guilty !” 

I echoed the words of the father, involuntarily. They 
struck the chord of conviction in my own soul, and seemed to me 
the language of a judgment. 


A father’s grief. 


255 


Ha ! You. know it, then cried the old man. “ Speak ! 
Tell me, Clifford — what is his folly? What is the particular 
guilt and shame into which he has fallen ?” 

I knew not that I had spoken until I heard these words. 
The agitation of the father was greatly increased. Truly, his 
sorrows were sad to look upon. I answered him : — 

“ I simply echoed your words, sir — I am ignorant, as I said 
before ; and, indeed, I may venture, I think, with perfect safety, 
to assure you that gaming and drink have nothing to do with 
his appearance and deportment. I should rather suspect him of 
some improper — some guilty connection ” 

I felt that, in the utterance of these words, I too had become 
excited. My voice did not rise, but I knew that it had acquir- 
ed an intenseness which I as quickly endeavored to suppress. 
But the father had already beheld the expression in my face, 
and perhaps the sudden change in my tones grated harshly upon 
his ear. I could see that his look^ became more eager and in- 
quiring. I could note a greater degree of apprehension and 
anxiety in his eyes. I subdued myself, though not without 
some effort. 

“ William Edgerton may be erring, sir — that I do not deny, 
for I have seen too little of him of late to say anything of his 
proceedings ; but I am very confident when I say that excess 
in liquor can not be a vice of his ; and as for gaming, I should 
fancy that he was the last person in the world likely to be 
tempted to the indulgence of such a practice.” 

The father shook his head mournfully. 

“Why this shame? — this fear? Besides, Clifford, what wo 
know of our son makes us equally sure tha^. wcmen havfe 
nothing to do with his excesses. But these conjectures h Jp ua 
nothing. Clifford, I must look to you.” 

“ What can I do for you, sir ?” 

“ lie is my son, my only son — the care of inany sad, sleep- 
less hours. It was his mother’s hope that he would be our 
solace in the weary and the sad ones. You can not understand 
yet how much the parent lives In the child — how many of his 
iiopes settle there. William has already disappointed us in our 
ambition. He will be nothing that we hoped him to be; but of 
this I complain r.ot. But that he should become base, Clifford ; 


256 CONFESSION, Oli THE BLIND HEART. 

a niglit-prowlcr in the streets ; a Iiaiiger-on of stews and gam- 
ing-houses ; a brawler at an alehouse bar ; a man to skulk through 
life and society ; down-looking in his father’s sight ; despised 
in that of the community — oh ! these are the cruel, the dread- 
ful apprehensions !” 

“ But you know not that he is any of these.” 

“ Ti*ue ; but there is something grievously wrong when the 
son dares not meet the eye of a parent with manly fearlessness ; 
when he looks without joyance at the face of a mother, and 
shrinks from her endearments as if he felt that he deserved 
them not. William Edgerton is miserable ; that is evident 
enough. Now, misery does not always imply guilt ; but, 
ji his case, what else should it imply ! He has had no 
misfortunes. He is independent ; he is beloved by his parents, 
and by his friends ; he has had no denial of the affections ; 
in short, there is no way of accounting for his conduct or 
appearance, but by the supposition that he has fallen into 
vicious habits. Whatever these habits are, they are killing 
him. He is a mere skeleton ; his whole appearance is that of a 
man running a rapid course of dissipation which can only ad- 
vance in shame, and terminate in death. Clifford, if I have 
ever served you in the hour of your need, serve me in this of 
mine. Save my son for me. Bring him back from his folly ; 
restore him, if you can, to peace and purity. See him, will you 
not ? Seek him out ; see him ; probe his secret ; and tell me 
what can be done to rescue him before it be too late.” 

“ Rcallv, Mr. Edgerton, you confound me. What can I 
do?” 

“ I know not. Every thing, perhaps ! I confess I can not 
counsel you. I can not even suggest how you should begin. 
You must judge for yourself. You must think and make your 
approaches according to your own judgment. Remember, that 
it is not in his behalf only. Think of the father, the mother ! 
our hope, our all is at stake. I speak to you in the language 
of a child, Clifford. I am a child in this. This boy has been 
the apple of our eyes. It is our sight for which I seek your 
help. I know your good sense and sagacity. I know that you 
can trace out his secret when I should fail. My feelings wotild 
blitid life to the tflitlu They might lead me to use language 


A father’s grief. 


257 


winch would drive him from me. I leave it all to you. I know 
not who else can do for me half so well in a matter of this sort. 
Will you undertake it V* 

Could I refuse ? This question was discussed in all its bear- 
ings, in a few lightning-like progresses of thought. I felt all 
its difficulties — anticipated the annoyances to which it would 
subject me, and the degree of self-forbearance which it would 
necessarily require ; yet, when I looked on the noble old gentle- 
man wlip sat beside me — his gray hairs, his pleading looks, the 
recollection of the deep debt of gratitude which I owed him — 
I put my hand in his ; I could resist no longer. 

“ I will try !” was the brief answer which I made him. 

“God bless, God speed you!” he exclaimed, squeezing my 
hand with a pressure that said everything, and we separated ; 
he for his family, and I for that new task which I had under- 
taken. How different from my previous purpose ! I was now 
to seek to save the person whom I had set forth that morning 
wdth the purpose (if I had any purpose) to destroy. What d 
volume made up of contradictions and inconsistencies, strangely 
bound together, is the moral world of man i 


258 


CONFESSJO^'5 HEART. 


OliAPTEli XXXV. 

.. " 7..0^: TION OF THE QOESTiON.*' 

i:, j r cow to save him ? How to approach him ? How to 
keep down my own sense of wrong, my own feeling of misery, 
while representing the wishes and the feelings of that good old 
man — that venerable father ? These were questions to afflict, 
to confound me ! Still, I was committed ; I must do what I 
had promised ; undertake it at least : and the conviction that 
such a task was to be the severest trial of my manliness, was a 
conviction that necessarily helped to strengthen me to go through 
with it like a man 

What I had heard from Mr. Edgerton in relation to his son, 
though new, and somew^hat surprising to myself, had not altered, 
in any respect, my impressions on the subject of his conduct 
towa'^ch or with; my wife. Indeed- it rather served to confirm, 
them I could have told the old man, that, in losing all traces 
of his son in the neighborhood of roy dwelling the night when 
he pursued him, he had the most conclusive proofs that he had 
gone to no gaming-houses. But where did he go ? That was 
a question for myself. Had he entered my premises, and 
hidden himself amidst the foliage where I had myself so* 
often harbored, while my object had been the secret inspec- 
tion of my household I Could it be that he had loitered, 
theie during the last few nights of my wife's illness, in the vain 
hope of seeing me take my departure? This was the con- 
clusion which I reached, and with it came the next thought thai 
he would revisit the spot again that night. Ha I that thought ! 
“Let him come!” T muttered to myself. “1 will -sindeavor to 
be in readiness 1” 


APmCATiON OF THE QtJESTION. 


259 


But, surely, the father was grievously in error ; his parental 
fiiar, alone, had certainly drawn the picture of his son’s reduced 
and miserable condition. I had seen nothing of this. I had 
observed that he was shy, incommunicative — seeking to avoid 
me, as, according to their showing, he had striven to avoid his 
parents. So far our experience had been the same. But I had 
totally failed to perceive the marks of suffering or of sin which 
the vivid feelings of the father on this subject had insisted were 
so apparent. I had: seen in Edgerton only the false friend, the 
traitor, stealing like a serpent to my bower, to beguile from my 
side the only object which made it dear to me. I could see in 
him only the exulting seducer, confident in his ability, artful in 
his endeavors, winning in his accomplishments, and striving, 
with practised industry of libertinism, in the prosecution of his 
cruel schemes. I could see the grace of his bearing, the ease 
of his manner, the symmetry of his person, the neatness of his 
costume, the superiority of his dancing, the insinuation of his 
address. I could see these only ! That he looked miserable — 
that he was thin to meagreness, I had not seen. 

Yet, even were it so, what could this prove, as the father had 
conclusively shown, but guilt. Poverty could not trouble him 
— he had never been an unrequited lover. He had gone along 
the stream of society, indifferent to the lures of beauty, and 
with a bark that had always appeared studiously to keep aloof 
from the shores or shoals of matrimony. If he was miserable, 
his misery could only come from misconduct, not from mis- 
fortune. It was a misery engendered by guilt, and what was 
that guilt ? I knew that he did not drink ; and was not his 
course in regard to Kingsley, as narrated by that person on the 
night when we went to the gaming-house together — was not 
that sufficient to show that he was no gamester, unless he hap- 
pened to be one of the most bare faced of all canting hypo- 
crites, which I could not believe him to be. What remained, 
but that my calculations were right ? It was guilt that was sink- 
ing him, body and soul, so that his eye no longer dared to look 
upward — so that his ear shrunk from the sounds of those 
voices which, even in the language of kindness, were still 
speaking to him in the severest language of rebuke. And 
whom did that guilt concern more completely than myself] 


260 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

Say that the father was to lose his son, his only son — wliat 
was my loss, what was my shame ! and upon whom should the 
curse most fully and finally fall, if not upon the wrong-doer, 
though it so happened that the ruin of the guilty brought with 
it overthrow to the innocent scarcely less complete ! 

The extent of that guilt of Edgerton ? 

On this point all was a wilderness, vague, inconclusive, con- 
fused and croAvded within my understanding. I believed that he 
liad approached my wife with evil designs — I believed, Avithout 
a doubt, that he had passed the boundaries of propriety in his 
intercourse with her ; but I believed not that she had fallen ! 
No ! I had an instinctive confidence in her purity, that render- 
ed it ap])arently impossible that she should lapse into the gross- 
ness of illicit love. What, then, was my fear ? That she did 
love him, though, struggling with the tendency of her heart, she 
had not yielded in the struggle. I believed that his grace, beauty, 
and accomplishments — his persevering attention — his similar 
tastes — had succeeded in making an impression upon her soul 
which had effectually eradicated mine. I believed that his at- 
tentions were sweet to her — that she had not the strength to 
reject them ; and, though she may have proved herself too virtu- 
ous to yield, she had not been sufficiently strong to repulse him 
with virtuous resentment. 

That Edgerton had not succeeded, did not lessen his offence. 
The attempt was an indignity that demanded atonement — that 
justified punishment equally severe Avith that which should have 
folloAved a successful prosecution of his purpose. Women are 
by nature weak. They are not to be tempted. He who, 
knowing their Aveakness, attempts their overthroAv by that 
medium, is equally coAvardly and criminal. I could not doubt 
that he had made this attempt ; but now it seemed necessary 
that I should suspend my indignation, in obedience with what 
appeared to be a paramount duty. A selfish reasoning now 
suggested compliance with this duty as a mean for procuring 
better intelligence than I already possessed. I need not say 
that the doubt was the pain in my bosom. I felt, in the words 
of the cold devil lago, those “ damned minutes” of him “ who 
dotes, y(‘t doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves.” 

The slrapeless character of my fears and suspicions did not 


APPLICATION OP THE QUESTION. 261 

i^ieaDs lessen tlieir force and volume. On the contrary 
it caused them to loom out through the hazy atmosphere of the 
imagination, assuming aspects more huge and terrible, in con- 
sequence of their very indistinctness ; as the phantom shapes 
along the mountains of the Brocken, gathering and scowling in 
the morning or the evening twilight. To obtain more precise 
knowledge — to be able to subject to grasp and measure the un- 
certain phantoms which I feared — was, if not to reduce their 
proportions, at least to rid me of that excruciating suspense, in 
determining what to do, which was the natural result of my 
present ignorance. 

With some painstaking, I was enabled to find and force an 
interview with Edgerton that very day. He made an effort to 
elude me — such an effort as he could make without allowing 
his object to be seen. But I was not to be baffled. Having 
once determined upon my course, I was a puritan in the invete- 
racy with which I persevered in it. But it required no small 
struggle to approach the criminal, and so utterly to subdue my 
own sense of wrong, my suspicions and my hostility, as to keep 
in sight no more than the wishes and fears of the father. I 
have already boasted of my strength in some respects, even 
while exposing my weaknesses in others! That I could per- 
suade Edgerton and my wife, equally, of my indifference, even 
at the moment when I was most agonized by my doubts of 
their purity, is a sufficient proof that I possessed a certain sort 
of strength. It was a moral strength, too, which could conceal 
the pangs inflicted by the vulture, even when it was preying 
upon the vitals of the best affections and the dearest hopes of 
the heart. It was necessary that I should put all this strength 
in requisition, as well, to do what was required by the father, as 
to pierce, with keen eye, and considerate question, to the secret 
soul of the witness. I must assume the blandest manner of our 
youthful friendship : I must say kind things, and say them with 
a certain frank unconsciousness. I must use the language of a 
good fellow — a sworn companion — who is anxious to do justice 
to ir.y friend’s father, and yet had no notion that my friend 
himself was doing the smallest thing to justify the unmeasured 
fears of the fond old man. Such was my cue at first. I am 
not so sure that I pursued h to the end ; but of this hereafter. 


262 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

My attention having been specially drawn to the personal 
appearance of William Edgerton, I was surprised, if not abso- 
lutely shocked, to see that the father had scarcely exaggerated 
the misery of his condition. He was the mere shadow of his | 
former self. His limbs, only a year before, had been rounded j 
even to plumpness. They were now sharp and angular. His i 
skin was pale, his looks haggard ; and that apprehensive shrink- | 
ing of the eye, which had called forth the most.keen expressions | 
of fear and suspicion from the father’s lips, was the prominent 
characteristic which commanded my attention during our brief 
interview. His eye, after the first encounter, no longer rose to 
mine. Keenly did I watch his face, though for an instant only. 

A sudden hectic flush mantled its paleness. I could perceive a 
nervous muscular movement about his mouth, and he slightly 
started when I spoke. 

“ Edgerton,” I said, with tones of good-humored reproach, 

“ there’s no finding you now-a-days. You have the invisible 
cap. What do you do with yourself 1 As for law, that seems 
destined to be a mourner so far as you are concerned. Sh*e sits 
like a widow in her weeds. You have abandoned her ; -do you 
mean to abandon your friends also 

He answered, with a faint attempt to smile 

“ No ; I have been to see you often, but you are never at 
home.” 

“ Ah ! I did not hear of it. But if you really wished to see 
a husband who has survived the honeymoon, I suspect that 
home is about the last place where you should seek for him. 
Julia did the honors, I trust?” 

His eye stole upward, met mine, and sunk once more upon 
the floor. He answered faintly : — 

“ Yes, but I have not seen her for some days.” 

“Not since Mother Delaney’s party, I believe?” 

The color came again into his cheeks, but instantly after was 
succeeded by a deadly paleness. 

“ What a bore these parties are ! and such parties as those of 
Mrs. Delaney are particularly annoying to me. Why the d — 
couldn’t the old tabby halter her hobby without calling in her 
neighbors to witness the painful spectacle ? You were there, I 
think ?” 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


263 


Yes.” 

“ I left early. I got heartily sick. You know I never like 
such places ; and, as soon as they began dancing, I took advan- 
tage of the fuss and fiddle to steal off. It was unfortunate I 
did so, for Julia was taken sick, and has had a narrow chance 
for it. I thought I should have lost her.” 

All this was spoken in tones of the coolest imaginable indif- 
ference. Edgerton was evidently surprised. He looked up 
with some curiosity in his glance, and more confidence ; and, 
with .accents that slightly faltered, he asked : — 

“ Is she well again ? I trust she is better now.” 

“Yes!” I answered, with the same sang-froid. “But I’ve 
had a serious business of watching through the last three nights. 
Her peril was extreme. She lost her little one.” 

A visible shudder went through his frame. 

“ Tired to death of the walls of the house, which seems a dun- 
geon to me, I dashed out this morning, at daylight, as soon as I 
found I could safely leave her ; and, strolling down to the office, 
who should I find there but your father, perched at the desk, 
and seemingly inclined to resume all his former practice?” 

“ Indeed 1 my father — so early ? What could be the matter ? 
Did lie tell you ?” 

“ Yes, i’faith, he is in tribulation about you. He fancies you 
are in a fair way to destruction. You can’t conceive what he 
fancies. It seems, according to his account, that you are a 
night-stalker. He dwells at large upon your nightly absences 
from home, and then about your appearance, which, to say 
truth, is very wretched. You scarcely look like the same man, 
Edfferton. Have you been sick? What’s the matter with 
your 

“ I am not altogether well,” he said, evasively. 

“Yes, but mere indisposition would never produce such a 
change, in so short a period, in any man ! Your father is dis- 
posed to ascribe it to other causes.” 

“ Ah ! what does he think ?” 

I fancied there was mingled curiosity and trepidation in this 
inquiry. 

“ He suspects you of gaming and drinking ; but I assured 
him, very confidently, that such was not the case. On one of 


264 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


tliese heads I could speak coufidently, for I met Kingsley the 
other night — the night of Mother Delaney’s party — who Avas 
hot and heavy against you because you refused to lend him 
money /or such purposes. I was more indulgent, lent him the 
money, went with him to the house, and returned home Avith a 
pocket full of specie, sufficient to set up a small banking-opera- 
tion of my OAAm.” 

“ You ! can it be possible?” 

“ True ; and no such dull Avay of spending an evening either. 
I got home in the small hours, and found Julia delirious. I 
haven’t had such a fright for a stolen pleasure, Heaven knows 
Avhcn. There Avas the doctor, and there my eternal mother-in- 
law, and my poor little Avife as near the grave as could be ! 
But the circumstance of refusing the money to Kingsley, know- 
ing his object, made me confident that gaming w'as not the cause 
of your night-stalking, and so I told the old gentleman.” 

“ And Avhat did he say ?” 

“ Shook his head mournfully, and reasoned in this manner ; 
‘ He has no pecuniary necessities, has no oppressive toils, and 
has never had any disappointment of heart. There is nothing 
to make him behave so, and look so, but guilt — guilt !’ ” 

I repeated the last Avord with an entire change in the tone of 
my voice. Light, lively, and playful before, I spoke that single 
Avord Avith a stern solemnity, and, bending toward him, my eye 
keenly traversed the mazes of his countenance. 

“ He has it I thought to myself, as his head drooped for- 
Avard, and his whole frame shuddered momentarily. 

“But” — here my tones again became Ih^ely and playful — I 
even laughed — “ I told the old man that I fancied I could hit 
the nail more certainly on the head. In short, I said I could 
pretty positively say what was the cause of your conduct and 
condition.” 

“ Ah !” and, as he uttered this monosyllable, he made a fee- 
ble effort to rise from his seat, but sunk back, and again fixed 
his eye upon the floor in visible emotion. 

“ Yes ! I told him — was I not right ? — that a woman was at 
the bottom of it all !” 

He started to his feet. His face AA^as averted from me. 

“ Ha ! Avas I not right ? I kneAV it ! I saw through it from 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


265 


the first ; and, though I did not tell the old man that, I was 
pretty sure that you were trespassing upon your neighbor's 
grounds. Ha! what say you? Was I not right ? Were you 
not stealing to forbidden places — playing the snake, on a small 
scale, in some blind man’s Eden ? Ha ! ha 1 what say you to 
that ? I am right, am I not ? eh ?” 

I clapped him on the shoulder as I spoke. His face had been 
half averted from me while I was speaking ; but now it turned 
upon me, and his glance met mine, teeming with inquisitive 
horror. 

“ No ! no I you are not right I” he faltered out ; “ it is not so. 
Nothing is the matter with me I I am quite well — quite! I 
will see my father, and set him. right.” 

“Do so,” I said, coolly and indifferently — “do so; tell him 
what you please : but you can’t change my conviction that 
you’re after some pretty woman, and probably poaching on 
some neighbor’s territory. Come, make me your confidante, 
Edgerton. Let us know the history of your misfortune. Is 
the lady pliant ? I should judge so, since you continue to spend 
so many nights away from home. Come, make a clean breast 
of it. Out with your secret ! I have always been your friend. 
We could not betray each other, I think 

“ You are quite mistaken,” he said, with the effort of one who 
is half strangled. “ There is nothing in it ; I assure you, you 
were never more mistaken.” 

“ Pshaw, Edgerton ! you may blind papa, but you can not 
blind me. Keep your secret, if you please, but, if you provoke 
me, I will trace it out ; I will unkennel you. If I do not show 
the sitting hare in a fortnight, by the course of the hunter, tell 
me I am none .myself.” 

His consternation increased, but I did not allow it to disarm 
me. I probed him keenly, and in such a manner as to make 
him wince with apprehension at every word which I uttered. 
Morally, William Edgerton was a brave man. Guilt alone 
made him a coward. It actually gave me pain, after a while, 
to behold his wretched imbecility. He hung upon my utter- 
ance with the trembling suspense of one whose eye has become 
enchained with the fascinating gaze of the serpent. I put my 
questions and comments home to him, on the assumption that 

12 


266 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


he was playing the traitor with another’s wife ; though taking 
care, all the while, that my manner should be that of one who 
has no sort of apprehensions on his own score. My deportment 
and tone tallied well with the practised indifference which had 
distinguished my previous overt conduct. It deceived him on 
that head ; but the truth, like a sharp knife, was no less keen 
in penetrating to his soul; and, preserving my coolness and 
directness, with that singular tenacity of purpose which I could 
maintain in spite of my own sufferings — and keep them still 
unsuspected — I did not scruple to impel the sharp iron into 
every sensitive place within his bosom. 

He writhed visibly before me. His struggles did not please 
me, but I sought to produce them simply because they seemed 
BO many proofs confirming the truth of my conjectures. The 
fiend in my own soul kept whispering, “He has it!” — and a 
fatal spell, not unlike that which riveted his attention to the 
language which tore and vexed him, urged me to continue it 
until at length the sting became too keen for his endurance. In 
very desperation, he broke away from the fetters of that fascina 
tion of terror which had held him for one mortal hour to the spot 

“No more! no more!” he exclaimed, with an uncontrollabli 
burst of emotion. “ You torture me ! I can stand it no longer \ 
There is nothing in your conjecture ! There is no reason for 
your suspicions ! She is — ” 

“She? Ah!” 

I could not suppress the involuntary exclamation. The trutl 
seemed to be at hand. I was premature. My utterance brought 
him to his senses. He stopped, looked at me wildly for an in- 
stant, his eyes dilated almost to bursting. He seemed suddenly 
to be conscious that the secrets of his soul — its dark, uncommis- 
sioned secrets — were about to force themselves into sight and 
speech ; and unable, perhaps, to arrest them in any other way 
he darted headlong from my presence. 


MEDITATED , EXILE. 


^67 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MEDITATED EXILE. 

With his departT:re sunk the spirit which had sustained me. 
I. had not gone through that scene willingly ; I had suff’cred 
quite as many pangs as himself. I had made my own misery, 
though disguised under the supposed condition of another, the 
subject of my own mockery; and if I succeeded in driving the 
iron into his soul, the other end of the shaft was all the while 
working in mine ! His flight was an equal relief to both of us. 
The stern spirit left me from that moment My agony found 
relief, momentary though it was, in a sudden gush of tears. 
My hot, heavy head sank upon my palms, and I groaned in un- 
reserved homage to the never-sUmibering genius of pain — that 
genius which alone is universal — which adopts us from the 
cradle — which distinguishes our birth by .our tears, hallows the 
sentiment of grief to us from the beginning, and maintains the 
fountains which supply its sorrows to the end. The lamb skips, 
the calf leaps, the fawn bounds, the bird chirps, tho young colt 
frisks ; all things but man enjoy life from its very 5awn. He 
alone is feeble, suffering. His superior pangs and sorrows are 
the first proofs of his singular and superior destiny. 

Bitter was the gush of tears that rolled from the surcharged 
fountains of my heart; bitter, but free — flowing to mv »:&'ief, 
at the moment when my head seemed likely to burs^ witi a vol- 
canic volume within it, and when a blistering ar’ow searr 3d 
slowly to traverse, to and fro, the most sore and shruir ng pas- 
sages of my soul. Had not Edgerton fled, I could not have 
sustained it much longer. My passions would have hurled 
aside my judgment, and mocked that small policy under which 


20^ CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I acted. I felt that they were about to speak, and rejoiced that 
he fled. Had he remained, I should most probably have poured 
forth all my suspicion, all my hate ; dragged by violence from 
his lips the confession of his wrong, and from his heart the last 
atonement for it. 

At first I reproached myself that I had not done so. I ac- 
cused myself of tameness — the dishonorable tameness of sub- 
mitting to indignity — the last of all indignities — and of confer- 
ring calmly, even good-humoredly, with the wrong-doer. But 
cooler moments came. A brief interval sufficed — helped by 
the flood of tears which rushed, hot and scalding, from my eyes 
— to subdue the angry spirit. I remembered my pledges to 
the father ; my unspeakable obligations to him ; and when I 
again recollected that my convictions had not assailed the purity 
of my wife, and, at most, had questioned her affections only, my 
forbearance seemed justified. 

But could the matter rest where it was 'I Impossible ! What 
was to be done 1 It was clear enough that the only thing that 
could be done, for the relief of all parties, was to be done by 
myself. Edgerton was suffering frorfi a guilty pursuit. That 
pursuit, if still urged, might be. successful, if not so at present. 
The constant drip of the water will wear away the stone ; and. 
if my wife could submit to impertinent advances without de- 
claring them to her husband, the work of seduction was already 
half done. To listen is, in half the number of cases, to fall. I 
must save her ; I had not the coin-age to put her from me. Be- 
lieving that she was still safe, I resolved, through the excess 
of that loVe which was yet the predominant passion in my soul, 
in spite of all its contradictions, to keep her so, if human wit 
could avail, and human energy carry its desires into successful 
completion. 

To do this, there was but one process. That was flight. I 
must heave'* this city — this country. By doing so, I remove 
my wife from temptation, remove the temptation from the un- 
happy young man whom it is destroying j and thus, though by 
a sacrifice of my own comforts and interests, repay the debt of 
gratitude to my benefactor in the only effective manner. It 
lOi no small exercise of moral courage and forbearance—* 
r^yj K V/cnevolence — to come to this conclusion. It must be 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


269 


understt od that my professional business was becoming particu- 
larly profitable. I was rising in my profession. My clients 
daily increased in number ; my acquaintance daily increased in 
value. Besides, I loved my birthplace — thrice-hallowed — the 
only region in my eyes — 

“ The spot most worthy loving 
Of all beneath the sky.” 

But the sacrifice was to be made ; and my imagination immedi- 
?tely grew active for my compensation, by describing a wood- 
land home — a spot, remote from the crowd, where I should 
carry my household gods, and set them up for my exclusive 
and uninvaded worship. The whole world-wide West was open 
to me. A virgin land, rich in natural wealth and splendor, it 
held forth the prospect of a fair field and no favor to every new- 
comer. There it is not possible to keep in thraldom the fear- 
less heart and the active intellect. There, no petty circle of 
society can fetter the energies or enfeeble the endeavors. No 
mocking, stale conventionalities can usurp the place of natural 
laws, and put genius and talent into the accursed strait-jacket 
of routine ! Thither will I go. I remembered the late confer- 
ence with my friend Kingsley, £tnd the whole course of my rea- 
soning on the subject of my removal was despatched in half an 
hour. “ I will go to Alabama.” 

Such was my resolution. I was the man to make sudden 
resolutions. This, however, reasoned upon with the utmost cir- 
cumspection, seemed the very best that I could make. My 
wife, yet pure, was rescued from the danger that threatened 
her ; I was saved the necessity of taking a life so dear to my 
benefactor; and the unhappy young man himself — the victim 
to a blind passion — having no longer in his sight the tempta- 
tion which misled him, would be left free to return to better 
thoughts, and the accustomed habits of business and society. 1 
had concluded upon my course in the brief interval which fol- 
lowed my interview with William Edgerton and my return 
home. 

The next day I saw his father. I communicated the assur- 
ance of the son, and renewed my own, that neither drunken- 
ness nor gaming was a vice. What it was that afflicted hini 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I did not pretend to know, but I ascribed it to want of employ- 
ment ; a morbid, unenergetic temperament ; the fact that he was 
independent, and had no rough necessities to make him estimate 
the true nature and the objects of life ; and, at the close, quietly 
suggested that possibly there was some affair of the heart which 
contributed also to his suffering. I did -not deny that his looks 
were wretched, but I stoutly assured the old man that his pa- 
rental fears exaggerated their wretchedness. We had much 
other talk on the subject. When we were about to separate for 
the day, I declared my own determination in this manner : — 

“ I have just decided on a step, Mr. Edgerton, which perhaps' 
will somewhat contribute to the improvement of your son, by 
imposing some additional tasks upon him. I am about to em- 
igrate for the southwest.” 

“ You, Clifford ? Impossible ! What puts that into your 
head]” 

It was something difficult to furnish any good reason for such 
a movement. The only obvious reason spoke loudly for my 
remaining where I was. 

“This is unaccountable,” said he. “You are doing here as 
few young men have done before you. Your business increas- 
ing — your income already good — surely, Clifford, you have not 
thought upon the matter — you are not resolved.” 

I could plead little other than a truant disposition for my 
proceeding, but I soon convinced him that I was resolved. He 
seemed very much troubled ; betrayed the most flattering con- 
cern in my interests ; and, renewing his argument for my stay, 
renewed also his warmest professions of service.” 

“ I had hoped,” he said, “ to have seen you and William, 
closely united, pursuing the one path equally and successfully 
together. I shall have no hopes of him if you leave us.” 

“ The probability is, sir, that he will do better with the whole 
responsibility of the office thrown upon him.” 

“No ! no !” said the old man, mournfully. “ I have no hope 

of him. There seems to me a curse upon wealth always that 

follows and clings to it, and never leaves it, till it works out the 
ruin of all the proprietors. See the number of our young men, 
springing from nothing, that make everything out of it — rise to 
eminence and power — get fortune as if it were a mere sport tc 


271 


MEDITATED EXILE. 

command and to secure it ; while, on tlie other hand, look at the 
heirs of our proud families. Profligate, reckless, abandoned; 
as if, reasoning from the supposed wealth of their parents, they 
fancied that there were no responsibilities of their own. I saw 
this danger from the beginning. I havQ striven to train up my 
son in the paths of duty and constant employment; and yet — 
but complaint is idle. The consciousness of having tried my 
best to have and make it otherwise is, nevertheless, a consola- 
tion. When do you think to go ?” 

“ In a week or two at farthest. I have but to rid myself of 
my impediments ” 

“ Always prompt ; but it is best. Once resolved, action is the 
moral law. Still, I wish I could delay you. I still think you 
are committing a great error. I can not understand it. You 
have established yourself. This is not easy anywhere. You 
will find it difficult in a new country, and among strangers.” 

“ Nay, sir, more easy there than anywhere else. If a man 
has anything in him, strangers and a new country are the proper 
influences to bring it out. Friends and an old community keep 
it down, suppress, strangle it. This is the misfortune of your 
son. He has family, friends — resources which defeat all the 
operations of moral courage, and prevent independence. Ne- 
cessity is the moral lever. Do you forget the saying of one of 
the wise men ? ‘ If you wish your son to become a man, strip 
him naked and send him among strangers’ — in other words, 
throw him upon his own resources, and let him take care of 
himself. The not doing this is the source of that misfortune 
which only now you deplored as so commonly following the 
condition of the select and wealthy. I do not fear the struggle 
in a new country. It will end in my gaining my level, be that 
high or low. Nothing, in such a region, can keep a man from 
that.” 

“ Ay. but the roughness of those new countries — the absence 
of refinement — the absolute want of polish and delicacy.” 

“ The roughness will not offend me, if it is manly. The 
world is full of it. To be anything, a man must not have too 
nice a stomach. Such a stomach will make him recoil frona 
sights of misery and misfortune ; and he who recoils from such 
sights, will be the last to relieve, to repair them But while I 


272 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


admit the roughness and the want of polish among these fron 
tier men, I deny the want of delicacy. Their habits are rude 
and simple, perhaps, but their tastes are pure and unaffected, 
and their hearts in the right place. They have strong affec- 
tions; and strong affections, properly balanced, are the true 
sources of the better sort of delicacy. All other is merely con- 
ventional, and Consists of forms and phrases, which are very apt 
to keep us from the thing itself which they are intended to rep- 
resent. Give me these frank men and women of the frontier, 
while m}^ own feelings are yet strong and earnest. Here, I am 
perpetually annoyed by the struggle to subdue within the social 
limits the expression of that nature which is for ever boiling 
up within me, and the utterance of which is neither more nor 
less than the heart’s utterance of the faith and hope which are 
in it. We are told of those nice preachers who ‘ never mention 
hell to ears polite.’ They are the preachers of your highly- 
refined, sentimental society. Whatever hell may be, they are 
the very teachers that, by their mincing forbearance, conduct 
the poor soul that relies on them into its jaws. It is a sort of 
lie not to use the properest language to express our thoughts, 
but rather so to falsify our thoughts by a sort of lack-a-daisaical 
phraseology which deprives them of all their virility. A na- 
tion or community is in a bad way for truth, when there is a 
tacit understanding among their members to deal in the diminu- 
tives of a language, and forbear the calling of things by their 
right names. An Englishman, wishing to designate something 
which is graceful, pleasing, delicate, or fine, uses the word ‘ nice’ 
— more fitly applied to bon-bons or beefsteaks, according to the 
stomach of the speaker. An energetic form of speech is rated, 
in fashionable society, as particularly vulgar. In our larger 
American cities, where they have much pretension but little 
character, a leg must not be spoken of as such. You may say 
‘ limb,’ but not ‘ leg.’ The word ‘ woman’ — one of the sweetest 
in the language — is supposed to disparage the female to whom 
it is applied. She must be called a ‘ lady,’ forsooth ; and this 
word, originally intended to pacify an aristocratic vanity, has 
become the ordinary appellative of every member of that gross 
family which, in the language of Shakspere, is.only fit to ‘ suckle 
fools and chronicle small beer.’ I jshall be more free, and feel 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


273 


more lionest in tliat rough world of the west ; a region in which 
the dilettantism, such as it is, of our Atlantic cities, is always 
very prompt to sneer at and disparage ; but I look to see the 
day, even in our time, when that west shall be, not merely an 
empire herself, but the nursing mother of great empires. There 
shall be a genius born in that vast, wide world — a rough, un 
licked genius it may be, but one whose words shall fall upon 
the hills like thunder, and descend into the valleys like a set- 
tled, heavy rain, which shall irrigate them all with a new life. 
Perhaps — ” 

I need not pursue this. I throw it upon paper with no delib- 
eration. It streams from me like the rest. Its tone was some- 
what derived from those peculiar, sad feelings, and that pang- 
provoking course of thought, which it has been the purpose of 
this narrative to embody. In the expression of digressive but 
earnest notions like these, I could momentarily divert myself 
from deeper and more painful emotions. I had really gone 
through a great trial: I say a great trial = — always assuming 
human indulgence for that disease of the blind heart which led 
me where I found myself, which makes me what I am. I did 
not feel lightly the pang of parting with my birthplace. I did 
not esteem lightly the sacrifice of business, comfortj^and distinc- 
tion which I was making ; and of that greater cause of suffering, 
supposed or real, of the falling off in my wife’s affection, the 
agony is already in part recorded. It may be permitted to me-, 
perhaps, under these circumstances — with the additional knowl- 
edge, which I yet suppressed, that these sacrifices were to be 
made, and these sufferings endured, partly that the son might be 
saved — to speak with some unreserved warmth of tone to the 
venerable and worthy sire. He little knew how much of my 
determination to remove from my country was due to my regard 
for him. I felt assured that, if I remained, two things must hap- 
pen. William Edgerton would persevere in his madness, and I 
should murder him in his perseverance ! I banished myself in 
regard for that old man, and in some measure to requite his 
benefactions, that I might be spared this necessity. 

When, the next day, I sought William Edgerton himself, an(? 
declared my novel determination, he turned pale as death. 1 
could see that his lips quivered. I watched him closely. He 


’2U 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEAIIT. 

was evidently racked by an emotion which was more obvionfl 
from the necessity he was under of suppressing it. With con 
siderable difficulty he ventured to ask my reasons for this 
strange step, and with averted countenance repeated those which 
his father had proffered against my doing so. I could see that 
he fain would have urged his suggestions more vehemently if 
he dared. But the conviction that his wishes were the fathers 
to his arguments was conclusive to render him careful that his 
expostulations should not put on a show of earnestness. I must 
do William Edgerton the justice to say that guilt was hot his 
familiar. He could not play the part of the practised hypocrite. 
He had no powers of artifice. He could not wear the flowers 
upon his breast, having the volcano within it. Professionally, 
he could be no rozte. He could seem no other than he was. 
Conscious of guilt, which he had not the moral strength to coun- 
teract and overthrow, he had not, at the same time, the art 
necessary for its concealment. He could use no smooth, subtle 
blandishments. His cheek and eye would tell the story of his 
mind, though it strove to make a false presentment. I do him 
the further justice to believe that a great part of his misery 
arose from this consciousness of his doing wrong, rather than 
from the difficulties in the way of his success. I believe that, 
even were he successful in the prosecution of his illicit purposes, 
he would not have looked or felt a jot less miserable. I felt, 
while we conferred together, that my departure was perhaps 
the best measure for his relief. While I mused upon his char- 
acter and condition, my anger yielded in part to commiseration. 
I remembered the morning-time of our boyhood — when we 
stood up for conflict with our young enemies, side by side — 
obeyed the same rallying-cry, recognised the same. objects, and 
were a sort of David and Jonathan to one another. Those 
days! — they soothed and softened me while I recalled them. 
My tone became less keen, my language less tinctured with 
sarcasm, when I thought of these things ; and I thought of our 
separation without thinking of its cause. 

“ I leave you, Edgerton, with one regret — not that we part, 
for life is full of partings, and the strong mind must be recon- 
ciled with them, or it is nothing — but that I leave you so un 
like your former self. I wish I could do something for yo i ” 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


275 


I gave him my hand as as I spoke. He did not gi-asp — he 
rather shrunk from it. An uncontrollable burst of feeling 
seemed suddenly to gush from him as he spoke : — 

“Take no heed of me, Clifford — I am not worthy of yomr 
thought.” 

“ Ha ! What do you mean ?” 

He spoke hastily,- in manifest discomfiture; — 

“ I am worthy of no man’s thought.” 

“ Pshaw ! you are a hypochondriac.” 

“ Would it were that ! — But you go ! — when ?” 

“ In a week, perhaps.” 

“So soon? So very soon? Do you — do you carry your 
family with you at once ?” 

There was great effort to speak this significant inquiry. I 
perceived that. I perceived that his eyes were oh the ground 
while it was made. The question was offensive to me. It had 
a strange and painful significance. It recalled the whole cause, 
the bitter cause of my resolve for exile ; and I could not con- 
trol the altered tones of my voice in answering, which I did 
wdth some causticity of feeling, which necessarily entered into 
my utterance. 

“ Family, surely ! My wife only ! No great charge, I’m 
thinking, and her health needs an early change. Would you 
have me leave her 1 I have no other family, you know !” 

The dialogue, carried on with restraint before, was shortened 
by this ; and, after a few business remarks, which were neces- 
sary to our office concerns, he pleaded an engagement to get 
away. He left me with some soreness upon my mind, which 
formed its expression in a brief soliloquy. 

“ You would have the path made even freer than before, 
would you ? It does not content you, these long morning medi- 
tations — these pretended labors of the painting-room, the 
suspicious husband withdrawn, and the wife, neither scorning 
nor consenting, willing to believe in that devotion to the art 
which is properly a devotion to herself? These are not suffi- 
cient opportunities, eh ? There were more room for landscape, 
it this Othello wer<« m Alabama — pitching his staxes. ana 
building his log-cabin for the reception of that divinity, tha/ 
finds the worship very sufficient wliere she is! We shall dn 


27G 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


appoint you, Mr. Edgerton ! — Ah! could I but know all 
Could 1 be sure that she did love him ! Could I be sure that 
she did not! That is the curse — that doubt! — Will it remain 
so? No! no! Once removed — once in those forest regions, 
it can not be that she will repine for anything. She miist love 
me then — she will feel anew the first fond passion. She will 
forget these passing fancies. They will pass ! She is young. 
The image will haunt her no longer -at least, it will no longer 
haunt me !*’ 

So I spoke, but I was not so sure of that last. The doubt 
did not trouble me, however, Sufficient for the day is the evil 
thereof. But I had another test yet to try. I wushed to see 
how Julia would receive the communication of my purpose. 
As yet she knew nothing of my contemplated departure. “ It 
will surprise her,” I thought to myself. “ In that surprise she 
will show how much our removal will distress her !” 

But when I made known to her my intention, the surprise 
was all my own. The communication did not seemed to distress 
her at all. Surprise her it did, but the surprise seemed a pleasant 
one. It spoke out in a sudden flashing of the eye, a gentle 
smiling of the mouth, which was equally unexpected and grate 
ful to my heart. 

“ I am delighted with the idea !” she exclaimed, putting her 
arms about my neck. “ I think we shall be so happy there. I 
long to get away from this place.” 

“ Indeed ! But are you serious 

“ To be Sure.” 

“ I was apprehensive it might distress you.” 

“ Oh ! no ! no ! I have been dull and tired here, for a long 
while ; and I thought, when you told me that Mr. Kingsley had 
gone to Alabama, how delightful it would be if we could go 
too.” 

But you never told me that.” 

“No.” 

“ Nor even looked it, Julia.” 

“Surely not — I should have been loath to have you think, 
while your business was so prosperous, and you seemed so well 
satisfied here, that I had any discontent.’ 

“ I satisfied !” I said this rather to myself than hex. 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


277 


“ Yes, were you not ? I had no reason to think otherwise. 
Nay, I feared you were too well satisfied, for I have seen so 
little of you of late. I’m sure I wished we were anywhere, so 
that you could find your home more to your liking.” 

** And have such notions really filled your brain, Julia V’ 

" Eeally.” 

“And you have found me a stranger — you have mis- 
sed me ?” 

“ Ah ! do you not know it, Edward V* 

“ You shall have no need to reproach me hereafter. We will 
go to Alabama, and live wholly for one another. I shall leave 
you in business time only, and hurry back as soon as I can.” 

“ Ah, promise me that ?” 

“I do !” . 

“We shall be so happy then. Then we shall take our old 
ramoles, Edward, though in new regions, and I will resume the 
pencil, if you wish it.” 

This was said timidly. 

“ To be sure I wish it. But why do you say * resume’ ? Have 
you not been painting all along ?” 

“ No ! I have scarcely smeared canvass in the last two 
months ” 

“ But you have been sketching V* 

“No!” 

“ What employed you then in the studio ? How have you 
passed your mornings 

This inquiry was made abruptly, but it did not disturb her. 
Her answer was strangely satisfactory. 

“ I have scarcely looked in upon the studio in all that time.” 

I longed to ask what Edgerton had done with himself, and 
whether he had been suffered to employ himself alone, in his 
morning visits, but my tongue faltered — I somehow dared not 
Still, it was something to have her assurance that she had not 
found her attractions in that apartment in which my jealous 
fancy had assumed, that she took particular delight. She had 
spoken with the calmness of innocence, and 1 was too happy to 
believe her. I put my arms about her waist. 

“Yes, we v/ill renew the old habits, for I suppose that busi- 
ness there will be less pressing, less exacting, than I have found 


278 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

it here. We will take our long walks, Julia, and make up for 
lost time in new sketches. You have thought me a truant, Julia 
— neglectful hitherto ! Have you not?” 

“ Ah, Edward !” — Her eyes filled with tears, but a smile, like 
a rainbow, made them bright. 

“Say, did you not V* 

“ Do not be angry with me if I confess I thought you very 
much altered in some respects. T was fearful I had vexed you.” 

“You shall have no more reason to fear. We shall be the 
babes in the wood together. I am sure we shall be quite happy, 
left to ourselves. No doubts, no fears — nothing but love. And 
you are really willing to go ?” 

“ Willing ! I wish it ! I can get ready in a day.” 

“ You have but a week. But, have you no reluctance ? Is 
there nothing that you regret to leave ? Speak freely- Ji-ha. 
Your mother, your friends — would you not prefer to r>:.(F.7.i3i 
Avith them ?” 

She placed her hands on my shoulders, laid her head close to 
my bosom and murmured — how softly, how sweetly — in the 
touching language of the Scripture damsel. 

“ Entreat me not to leave thee, or to refrain from following 
after thee ; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou 
lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy 
God my God !” 

I folded her with tremulous but deep joy in my embrace ; and 
in that sweet moment of peace, I wondered that I ever should 
ha\ e questioned the faith of such a woman 


'*’HE BITTER IN THE CUP OP JOY. 


279 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

**AND STILL THE BITTER IN THE CUP OP JOY.” 

Once more I had sunshine. The clouds seemed to depart as 
suddenly as they had risen, and that same rejoicing and rosy 
light which had encircled the brow of manhood at its dawn 
long shrouded, seemingly lost for ever, and swallowed up in 
darkness — came out as softly and quietly in the maturer day, 
as if its sweet serene had never known even momentary ob- 
scuration. 

Love, verily, is the purple light of youth. If it abides, bles- 
sing and blessed, with the unsophisticated heart, youth never 
leaves us. Gray brows make not age — the feeble step, the 
wrinkled visage, these indicate the progress of time, but not the 
passage of youth. Happy hearts keep us in perpetual spring, 
and the glow of childhood without its weaknesses is burs to the fi- 
nal limit of seventy. The sense of desolation, the pang of denial, 
the baffled hope, and the defrauded love, these constitute the 
only age that should ever give the heart a pang. I can fancy a 
good man advancing through all the mortal stages from seven- 
teen to seventy-five, and crowned by the sympathies of cor- 
responsive affections, simply going on from youth to youth, 
ending at last in youth’s perfect immortality ! . 

The hope of this — not so much a hope as an instinct — is the 
faith of our boyhood. The boy, as the father of the man, 
transmits this hope to riper years ; but if the experience of the 
day correspond not with the promise of the dawn, how rapidly 
old age comes upon us ! White hairs, lean cheeks, withered 
muscles, feeble steps, and that dull, dead feeling about the heart 
— that utter abandonment of cheer — which would be despair 
were it not for a certain blunted sensibility — a sort of drowsy 


280 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


indifference to all things that the day brings forth, which, as it 
takes from life the excitement of every passion, leaves it free 
from the sting of any. Yet, were not the tempest better than 
the calm ? Who would not prefer to be driven before the 
treacherous hurricane of the blue gulf, than to linger midway 
on its shoreless waters, and behold their growing stagnation 
from day to day 1 The apathy of the passions is the most terri- 
ble form in which age makes its approaches. 

With an earnest, sanguine temperament, such as mine, there 
is little danger of such apathy. The danger is not from leth- 
argy hut madness. I had escaped this danger. It was sur- 
prising, even to myself, how suddenly my spirits had arisen 
from the pressure that had kept them down. In a moment, as 
it were, that mocking troop of fears and sorrows which envi- 
roned me, took their departure. It seemed that it was only 
necessary for me to know that I was about to lose the presence 
of William Edgerton to find this relief. 

And yet, how idle ! With an intense egoisme, such as mine, 
I should conjure up an Edgerton in the deepest valleys of our 
country. We have our gods and devils in our own hearts. 
The nature of the deities we worship depends upon our own. 
In a savage state, the Deity is savage, and expects bloody 
sacrifices ; with the progress of civili^tion hi?^ attributes incline 
to mercy. The advent of Jesus Christ indicated the advance 
of the Hebrews to a higher sense of the human nature. It was 
the advent of the popular principle, which has been advancing 
steadily ever since and keeping due pace with the progress of 
Christian education. The people were rising at the expense of 
the despotism which had kept them down. It does not affect 
the truth of this to show that the polish of the Jewish nation 
was lessened at this period. Nay, rather proves it, since the 
diffusion of a truth or a power must always lessen its intensity 
In teaching, for the first time, the doctrine of the soul’s immor- 
tality, the Savior laid the foundation of popular rights, in the 
elevation of the common humanity — since he thus showed the 
equal importance, in the sight of God, of every soul that had 
ever taken shape beneath his hands. 

The demon which had vexed and tortured me was a demon 
of my own soliciting — of my own creation. But, I knew not 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OP JOY. 281 - 

this. I congratulated myself on escaping from him. Blind 
fancy ! — I little knew the insidious pertinacity of this demon — 
this demon of the blind heart. I little knew the nature of his 
existence, and how much he drew his nutriment from the re- 
cesses of my own nature. He could spare, or seem to spare, 
the victim of whom he was so sure ; and by a sort of levity, ia 
no ways unaccountable, since we see it in the play of cat v I'h 
mouse, could indulge with temporary liberty, the poor captl’. e 
of whom he was at any moment certain. I congratulated my- 
self on my escape ; but I was not so well pleased with the con- 
gratulations of others. I was doomed to endure those of my 
exemplary mother-in-law, Mrs. Delaney. That woman had her 
devil — a worse devil, though not more troublesome, I think, 
than mine. She said to me, when she heard of my purpose of 
removal : “ You are right to remove. It is only prudent. Pity 
you had not gone some months ago.’' 

I read her meaning, where her language was ambiguous, in 
her sharp, leering eyes — full of significance: — an expression of 
mysterious intelligence, which, mingled with a slight, sinister 
smile upon her lips, for a moment, brought a renewal of all my 
tortures and suspicions. She saw the annoyance which I felt, 
and strove to increase it. I know not — I will not repeat — the 
occasional innuendos which she allowed herself to utter in the 
brief space of a twenty minutes’ interview. It is enough to say 
that nothing could be more evident than her desire to vex me 
with the worst pangs which a man can know, even though her 
success in the attempt was to be attained at the expense of her 
daughter’s peace of mind and reputation. I do not believe that 
she ever hinted to another, what she clearly enough insinuated 
as a cause of fear to me. Her purpose was to goad me to mad- 
ness, and in her witless malice, I do believe she was utterly un- 
conscious of the evil that might accrue to the child of her own 
womb from her base and cruel suggestions. I wished to get 
from her these suggestions in a more distinct form. I wished at 
the same time, to deprive her of the pleasure of seeing that I 
understood her. I restrained myself accordingly, though the 
vulture was then again at my vitals. 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Delaney ? Why is it a pity that 
I hadn’t gone months ago ?” 


282 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Oh ! that’s enough for me to know. I have my reasons.” 

“ But, will you not suffer me to know them ? I am conscioni 
of no evil that has arisen from my not going sooner.” 

“Indeed! Well, if you are not, I can only say you’re 
not so keen-sighted a lawyer as I thought you were. That’s 
all.” 

“ If you think I would have made out better, got more prac- 
tice, and made more money in Alabama, that, I must tell you, 
has been long since my own opinion.” 

“No I I don’t mean that — it has no regard to business and 
money-making — what I mean.” 

“ Ah ! what can it have regard to ? You make me curious, 
Mrs. Delaney.” 

“ Well, that may be; but I’m not going to satisfy your curios- 
ity. I thought you had seen enough for yourself. I’m sure 
you’re the only one that has not seen.” 

“ Upon my soul, Mrs. Delaney, you are quite a mystery.” 

“ Oh ! am I ?” 

“ I can’t dive into such depths. I’m ignorant.” 

“ Tell those that know you no better. But you can’t blind me. 
I know that you know — and more than that, I can guess what’s 
carrying you to Alabama. It’s not law business, I know that.’’ 

I was vexed enough, as may be supposed, at this malicious 
pertinacity, but I kept down my struggling gorge with a resolu- 
tion which I had been compelled often enough to exercise be- 
fore ; and quietly ended the interview by taking my hat and 
departure, as I said : — 

“ You are certainly a very sagacious lady, Mrs. Delaney ; 
but i must leave you, and wait your own time to make these 
mysterious revelations. My respects to Mr. Delaney. Good 
morning.” 

“ Oh, good morning ; but let me tell you, Mr. Clifford, if you 
don’t see, it’s not because you can’t. Other people can see 
without trying.” 

The Jezabel ! 

My preparations were soon completed. I worked with the 
spirit of enthusiasm-—! had so many motives to be active; and, 
subordinate among these^ but still important, I should get out of 
tl 3 reach ,f this Very woinail. 1 euuld not beat her myself, 


THE BlTl'ER IN THE CUP OP JOY. 


283 


but I wished her husband might do it, and not to anticipate my 
own story, he did so in less than three months after. He was 
the man too, to perform such a labor with unction and emphasis. 
A vigorous man with muscles like bolt-ropes, and limbs that 
would have been respectable in the days of Goliah. I met 
him on leaving the steps of Mrs. Delaney’s lodgings, and— 
thinking of the marital office I wished him to perform — I was 
rejoiced to discover that he was generously drunk — in the 
proper spirit for such deeds in the flesh. 

He seized my hand with quite a burst of enthusiasm, swore 
I was a likely fellow, and somehow he had a liking for me. 

“ Though, to be sure, my dear fellow, it’s not Mrs. Delaney 
that loves any bone in your skin. She’s a lady that, like most 
of the dear creatures, has a way of her own for thinking. She 
does her own thinking, and what can a woman know about 
such a business. It’s to please her that I sit by and say 
nothing ; and a wife must be permitted some indulgence while 
the moon lasts, which the poets tell us, is made out of honey : 
but it’s never a long moon in these days, and a small cloud soon 
puts an end to it. Wait till that time, Mr. Clifford, and I’ll 
put her into a way of thinking, that’ll please you and myself 
much better.” 

I thanked him for his good opinion, and civilly wished him — 
as it was a matter which seemed to promise him so much satisfac- 
tion — that the duration of the honeymoon should be as short 
as possible. He thanked me affectionately — grasped my hand 
with the squeeze of a blacksmith, and entreated that I should 
go back and take a drink of punch with him. As an earnest 
of what he could give me, he pulled a handful of lemons from 
his pocket which he had bought from a shop by the way. I 
need not say I expressed my gratitude, though I declined his 
invitation. I then told him I was about to remove to Alabama, 
and he immediately proposed to go along with me. I reminded 
liim that he was just married, and it would be expected of him 
that he would see the honeymoon out. 

“ Ah, faith !” he replied, “ and there’s sense in what you say ; 
it must be done, I suppose ; but devil a bit, to my thinking, 
does any moon last a month in this climate ; and the first cloudy 
weather, d’ye see, and I’m after you.” 


284 


CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 


It was difficult to escape from the generous embraces of my 
ardent father-in-law ; and the whole street witnessed them. 

That afternoon I spent in part with the Edgertons. I went 
soon after my own dinner and found the family at theirs, 
William Edgerton was present. The old man insisted that I 
should take a seat at the table and join them in a bottle of wine, 
which I did. It was a family, bearing apparently all the 
elements within itself of a happiness the most perfect and pro- 
found. Particularly an amiable family. Yet there was no in- 
sipidity. The father has already been made known ; the son 
should be by this time ; the mother was one of those strong- 
minded, simple women, whose mind may be expressed by its 
most striking characteristic — independence. She had that 
most obvious trait of aristocratic breeding, a quiet, indefinable, 
easy dignity — a seemingly natural quality, easy itself, that puts 
everybody at ease, and yet neither in itself nor in others suffer- 
ed the slightest approach to be made to unbecoming familiarity. 
A sensible, gentlewoman— -literally gentle — yet so calm, so 
firm, you would have supposed she had neven known one emo- 
tion calculated to stir the sweet, glass-like placidity of her de- 
portment. 

And yet, amidst all this calm placidity, with an eye looking 
benevolence, and a considerateness that took note of your small- 
est want, she sustained the pangs of one yearning for her first 
born ; dissatisfied and disappointed in his career, and apprehen- 
sive for his fate. The family was no longer happy. The worm 
was busy in all their hearts. They treated me kindly, but it 
was obvious that they were suffering. A visible constraint 
chilled and baffled conversation ; and I could see the deepening 
anxieties which clouded the face of the mother, whenever her 
eye wandered in the direction of her son. This it did, in spite, I 
am convinced, of her endeavors to prevent it. 

I, too, could now look in the same quarter. My feelings were 
less bitter than they were, and William Edgerton shared in the 
change. I did not the less believe him to have done wrong, but, 
in the renewed conviction of my wife’s purity, I could forgive 
him, and almost think he was sufficiently punished in enter 
taining affections which were "without hope. Punished he was, 
"whether by hopelessness or guilt, and punished terribly. I 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 285 

could see a difference for tlie worse in his appearance since I 
had last conferred with him. He was haggard and spiritless to 
the last degree. He had few words while we sat at table, and 
these were spoken only after great effort ; and, regarding him 
now with less temper than before, it seemed to me that his 
parents had not exaggerated the estimate which they had form- 
ed of his miserable appearance. He looked very much like 
one, who had abandoned himself to nightly dissipation, and those 
excesses of mind and body, which sap from both the saving and ele- 
vating substance. I did not wonder that the old man ascribed his 
condition to the bottle and the gaming-table. But that, I knew 
better, such would most probably have been my own conclusion. 

The conversation was not general — confined chiefly to Mr. 
Edgerton the elder and myself. Mrs. Edgerton remained awhile 
after the cloth had been withdrawn, joining occasionally in what 
was said, and finally left us, though with still a lingering, and a 
last look toward her son, which clearly told where her heart 
was. William Edgerton followed her, after a brief interval, 
and I saw no more of him, though I remained for more than an 
hour. He had said but little. It was with some evident effort, 
that he had succeeded in uttering some general observation on 
the subject of the Alabama prairies — those beautiful “ gardens 
of the desert,’^ 

** For which the speech of England has no name.” 

My removal had been the leading topic of our discourse, and 
when I declared my intention to start on the very next day, 
and that the present was a farewell visit, the emotion of the 
son visibly increased. Soon after he left the room. When I 
was alone with the father, he took occasion to renew his offer of 
service, and, in such a manner, as to take from the offer its tone 
of service. He seemed rather to ask a favor than to suggest one. 
Money he could spare — the repayment should be at my own 
leisure — and my bond would be preferable, he was pleased to 
say, to that of any one he knew. I thanked him with becom- 
ing feelings, though, for the present, I declined his assistance. I 
pledged myself, however, should circumstances make it neces- 
sary for me to seek a loan, to turn, in the first instance, to him. 
He had been emphatically my friend — the friend, sole, singula? 


28 G 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


— never fluctuating in liis regards, and never stopping to calcu- 
late the exact measure of my deserts. I felt that I could not 
too much forbear in reference to the son, having in view the gen- 
erous friendship of the father. 

That day, and the night which followed it, was a long period 
with me. I had to see many acquaintances, and attend to a 
thousand small matters. I was on my feet the whole day, and 
even when the night came I had no rest. I was in the city till 
near eleven o’clock. When I got home I found that my wife 
had done her share of the tasks. She had completed her prep- 
arations. Our luggage was all ready for removal. To her I 
had assigned the labor of packing up her pictures, her materials 
for painting, her clothes, and such other matters as she desired to 
carry with us, to our new place of abode. The rest was to be 
sold by a friend after our departure, and the proceeds remitted. 
I knew I should need them all. Most of our baggage was to 
be sent by water. We travelled in a private carriage, and con- 
sequently, could take little. Julia, unlike most women, was 
willing to believe with me that impediments are the tru& name 
for much luggage ; and, with a most unfeminine habit, she could 
limit herself without reluctance to the merest necessities. We 
had no bandboxes, baskets, or extra bundles, to be stuffed here 
and there, filling holes and corners, and crowding every space, 
which should be yielded entirely to the limbs of the traveller. 
Though sensitive and delicate in a great degree, she had yet 
that masculine sense which teaches that, in the fewness of our 
wants lies our truest source of independence; and she could 
make herself ready for taking stage or steamboat in quite as 
short a time as myself. 

Her day’s work had exhausted her. She retired, and when 
I went up to the chamber, she already seemed to sleep. I could 
not. Fatigue, which had produced exhaustion, had baffled sleep. 
Extreme weariness becomes too much like a pain to yield readi- 
ly to repose. The moment that exercise benumbs the frame, 
makes the limbs ache, the difficulty increases of securing slum- 
ber. I felt weary, but I was restless also. I felt that it would 
be vain for me to go to bed. Accordingly, I placed myself be- 
side the window, and looked out meditatingly upon the broad 
lake which lay before our dwelling. 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 


287 


The night was very calm and beautiful. The waters from 
the lake were falling. Tide was going out, and the murmuring 
clack of a distant sawmill added a strange sweetness to the 
hour, and mingled harmoniously with the mysterious goings on 
of midnight. The starlight, not brilliant, was yet very soft and 
touching. Isolated and small clouds, like dismembered ravens* 
wings, flitted lightly along the edge of the western horizon, 
shooting out at intervals brief, brilliant flashes of lightning. 
There was a flickering breeze that played with the shrubbery 
beneath my window, making a slight stir that did not break 
the quiet of the scene, and gave a graceful movement to the 
slender stems as they waved to and fro beneath its pressure. 
A noble pride of India* rose directly before my eyes to the 
south — its branches stretching almost from within touch of the 
dwelling, over the fence of a neighbor. The whole scene was 
fairy-like. I should find it indescribable. It soothed my feel- 
ings. I had been the victim of a long and painful moral 
conflict. At length I had a glimmering of repose. Events, in 
the last few days — small events which, in themselves denoted 
nothing — had yet spoken peace to my feelings. My heart 
was m that dicamy state of languor, such as the body enjoys 
under tj.e gradually growing power of the anodyne, in which 
the bre 3 ih of the rummer wind brings a language of luxury, and 
fjie mo I mperic u si'^^lits and sounds in nature minister to a ca- 
pacity of enjovi ' eat, which is not the less intoxicating and 
sweet because-, il it) ‘ ibdued. I mused upon my own heart, 
upon the heart which 1 so much loved and had so much dis- 
trusted— upon life, its strange visions, delusive hopes, and the 
sweet efficacy of mere shadows in promoting one’s happiness 
at last. Then came, by natural degrees, the thought of that 
strange ir.ysleiious union of light and darkness — life and death 
— the shadows that we are; the substances that we are yet to 
be. The futrre! - still it rose before me — but the darkness 
upon it alone showed me it was there. It did not offend me, 
however, for my heart was glowing in a present starlight. It 
was the hour of hopes rather than of fears ; and in the mere 

* China tree ; the melia azedaracha of botanists. A tree peculiar to thfl 
south, of singular beauty, and held in high esteeib as a shade-tree. 


288 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


prospect of transition to the new — such is the elastic nature of 
youth — I had agreed to forget every pang whether of idea or 
fact, which had vexed and tortured lue in the perished past. 
My musings were all tender yet joyful — they partook of that 
“joy of grief’ of which the hard of Fingal tells us. I felt a 
big tear gathering in my eye, I knew not wherefore. I felt my 
heart growing feeble, with the same delight which one would 
feel at suddenly recovering a great treasure which had been 
supposed for ever lost. I fancied that I had recovered my treas- 
ure, and T rose quietly, went to the bed where Julia lay 
sleeping peacefully, and kissed her pale but lovely cheeks. 
She started, but did not waken — a gentle sigh escaped her lips, 
and they murmmred with some indistinct syllables which I failed 
to distinguish. At that moment the notes of a flute rose softly 
from the grove without. 


RENEWED AGONIES. 


m 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

RENEWED AGONIES. 

In that same moment my pangs were all renewed ; my repose of 
mind departed ; once more my heart was on fire, my spirit filled 
with vagne doubts, grief, and commotion. The soft, sweet, pre- 
luding note of the player had touched a chord in my soul as 
utterly different from that which it expressed, as could by any 
possibility he conceived. Heart and hope were instantly para- 
lyzed. Fear and its train, its haunting spectres of suspicion, 
took possession of the undefended citadel, and established guard 
upon its deserted outposts. I tottered to the window which I 
had left — I shrouded myself in the folds of the curtain, and as 
the strains rose, renewed and regular, I struggled to keep in my 
breath, listening eagerly, as if the complaining instrument could 
actually give utterance to the cruel mystery which I equally 
dreaded and desired to hear. 

The air which was played was such as I had never heard be- 
fore. Indeed, it could scarcely be called an air. It was the 
most capricious burden of mournfulness that had ever had its 
utterance from wo. Fancy a mute — one bereft of the divine 
faculty of speech, by human, not divine ministration. Fancy such 
a being endowed with the loftiest desires, moved by the acutes 
sensibilities, having already felt the pleasures of life, yet doom* 
ed to a denial of utterance, denied the language of complaint, 
and striving, struggling through the imperfect organs of his voice 
to give a name to the agony which works within him. That 
flute seemed to me to moan, and sob, and shiver, with some such 
painful mode of expression as would be permitted to the “ half 
made-uji^’ mortal of whom I have spoken. Its broken tones, 

13 


290 


CONFESSIO^ii, oii THE BLIND HEART. 


striving and struggling, almost rising at times into a shriek, seem- 
ed of all things to complain of its own voicelessness. 

And yet it had its melody — melody, to me, of the most vex- 
ing power. I should have called the strain a soliloquizing one. 
It certainly did not seem addressed to any ears. It wanted the 
continuance of apostrophe. It was capricious. Sometimes the 
burden fell off suddenly — broken — wholly interrupted — as if 
the vents had been all simultaneously and suddenly stopped. 
Anon, it rose again — soul-piercing if not loud — so abruptly, 
and with an utterance so utterly gone with wo, that you felt 
sure the poor heart must break with the next breath that came 
from the laboring and inefficient lungs. A “ dying fall” succeed- 
ing, seemed to afford temporary relief. It seemed as if tears 
must have fallen upon the instrument. Its language grew more 
methodical, more subdued, hut not less touching. I fancied, I 
felt, that, entering into the soul of the musician, I could give 
the very words to the sentiment which his instrument vainly 
strove to speak. What else but despair and utter self-abandon- 
ment was in that broken language ? The full heart over-burden- 
ed, breaking, to find a vent for the feelings which it had no 
longer power to contain. And yet, content to break, breaking 
with a melancholy sort of triumph which seemed to say — 

“ Such a death has its own sweetness ; love sanctifies the 
pang to its victim. It is a sort of martyrdom. He who loves 
truly, though he loves hopelessly, has not utterly loved in vain. 
The devoted heart finds a joy in the offering, though the Deity 
withholds his acceptance — though a sudden gust from heaven 
scatters abroad the rich fruits which the ffevotee has placed 
upon the despised and dishonored altar.” 

Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy 
music. Had I been other than I was — nay, had I listened tc 
the burden under other circumstances and in another place — 1 
should most probably have felt nothing but sympathy for the 
musician. As it was, I can not describe my feelings. All my 
racking doubts and miseries returned. The tone of triumph 
which the strain conveyed wrought upon me like an indignity. 
It seemed to denote that “foregone conclusion” which had been 
my cause of apprehension so long. Could it be then that Julia 
was i'cally guilty 1 Could she have given William Edgei’ton so 


RENEWED AiJONIES. 


291 


niucli encouragement that triumph and exultation sliould still 
mingle with liis farewell accents of despair 1 Ah! what fan- 
tasies preyed upon my soul ; haunted the smallest movements 
of my mind ; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its 
every beverage I When I thought thus of Julia, I rose cau- 
tiously from my seat, approached the bed where she was lying, 
and gazed steadily, though with the wildest thrill of emotion, 
into her face. I verily believe had she not been sleeping at 
that moment — sleeping beyond question — she would have 
shared the fate of 

The gentle lady wedded to the Moor." 

I was in the mood for desperate things. 

But she slept — her cheek upon her arm — pale, but oh ! how 
beautiful I and looking, oh ! how pure ! Her breathing was as 
tranquil and regular as that of an infant. I felt, while I gazed, 
that hers must be the purity of an infant also. I turned from 
beholding her, as the renewed notes of the musician once more 
ascended to the chamber. I again took my seat at the window 
and concealed myself behind the curtain. Here I had been 
concealed but a few moments, when I heard a rustling in the 
branches of the tree. Meanwhile, the music again ceased. I 
peered cautiously from behind the drapery, and fancied 1 be- 
held a dark object in the tree. It might be one of its branches, 
but I had not been struck by it before. I waited in breathless 
watchfulness. I saw it move. Its shape was that of a man. 
An exulting feeling of violence filled my breast. I rose stealth- 
ily, went into the dressing-room, and took up one of my pistols 
which lay on the toilet, and which I had that afternoon prepar- 
ed with a travelling charge. 

“ A brace of bullets,” I muttered to myself, “ will bring out 
another sort of music from this rare bird.” 

With this murderous purpose I concealed myself once more 
behkid the curtain. The figure was sufficiently distinct for aim. 
The window was not more than twelve or fourteen paces from 
the tree. My nerves were now as steady as if I had been about 
to perform the most ordinary action. What then prevented 
me ? What stayed my arm ? A single thought — a momentary 
recollection of an event wbicb had taken place in my boyhood. 


292 


CONFESSION, OH THE BLIND HEART. 


What a providence that it should have occurred to me at that 
particular moment. The circumstance was this. 

When first sent to school I had been frequently taken at ad- 
vantage by a bigger boy. He had twice my strength — he took 
a strong dislike for me — perhaps, because I was unwilling to 
pay him that deference, which, as school-bully, he extorted from 
all others ; — and he drubbed me accordingly, whenever an op- 
portunity occurred. My resistance was vain, and only stimulated 
liim to increased brutality. One day he was lying upon the 
grass, beneath an oak which stood in the centre of a common 
on which we usually played. It happened that I drew near 
him unperceived. In approaching him I had no purpose of as- 
sault or. violence. But the circumstance of my nearing him 
without being seen, suggested to my mind a sudden thought of 
revenging all my previous injuries. I felt bitterness and hate 
enough, had I possessed the strength, to have slain a dozen. I 
do not know that I had any design to slay him — to revenge 
myself was certainly my wish. Of death probably I had no idea. 
I looked about me for the agent of my vengeance. A pile of 
old brick which had formed the foundations of a dwelling which 
had stood on the spot, and which had been burned, convenient- 
ly presented itself to my eye. I possessed myself of as large 
a fragment as my little hand could grasp ; I secured a second as 
a dernier resort. Slowly and slily — I may add, basely — I ap- 
proached him from behind, levelled the brick at his head, and 
saw the blood fly an instant after the contact. He was stunned 
by the blow, staggered up, however, with his eyes blinded by 
blood, and moved after me like a drunken man. I receded 
clowly, lifting the remaining fragment which I held, intending, 
if he approached me, to repeat the blow. 

On a sudden he fell forward sprawling. Then I thought him 
dead, and for the first time the dreadful consciousness of my 
crime in its true character, came to my mind. I can not de- 
scribe the agony of fear and horror which filled my soul. He 
did not die, but he was severely hurt. 

The recollection of that event — of what I then suffered — 
came to me involuntarily, as I was about to perform a second 
similar crime. I shuddered with the recollection of the past, 
and shrunk, uiuler the equal force of shame and consch'/ice, 


R£:newed agonies. 


293 


from the performance of a deed which, otherwise, 1 should prob- 
ably have committed in the brief time which I employed for 
reflection. With a feeling of nervous horror I put the weapon 
aside, and sinking once more into the chair beside the window 
I bore with what fortitude I might, the renewal of the accursed 
but touching strains that vexed me. 

William Edgerton was a master of the flute. Often before, 
Avhen we were the best friends, had I listened with delight, 
while he compelled it into discourse of music wild and some- 
what incoherent still : his present performance had now attained 
more continuousness and character. It was still mournful, but 
its sorrows rose and fell naturally, in compliance witli the laws 
of art. I listened till I could listen no longer. Human pa- 
tience must have its limits. My wife still slept. I descended 
the stairs, opened the door with as much cautiousness as possi- 
ble, and prepared to grapple the musician and haul him into 
the light. 

It might be Edgerton or not. I was morally sure it was. 
By grappling with him, in such a situation, I should bring the 
affair to a final issue, though it might not be a murderous one. 
But of that I did not think ; I went forward to do somsthiny i 
w hat that something waj to be, it was luft for tim and chance 
to determine. But, suddenly, as I opened the door, the music 
ceased. Stepping into the yard, I heard the sound as of a fall- 
ing body. I naturally concluded that he had heard the open- 
ing of the door, and had suffered himself to drop down to the 
ground. I took for granted that he had descended on the oppo- 
site side of the yard and within the enclosure of a neighbor. I 
leaped the fence, hurried to the tree, traversed the grounds, and 
found nobody. I returned, reached my own premises, and 
found the gate open which opened upon the street. He had 
gone then in that directicxi. I turned into the street, posted 
with all speed to the corner of the sauare. and met only tho 
watchman. I asked, but lie had seen nobody. The street was 
perfectly quiet I returned, reascended to my chamber, found 
Julia now awake, and evidently much agitated. She had arisen 
in my absence, and was only about to re-enter the bed whea J 
rushed up stairs. 

What was I to think ? What fear 1 I was too conscious of 


294 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


tlie suspicious nature of my thoughts and fears to suffer myself 
to ask any questions — and slie, unhappily for both of us — she 
said nothing. Had she but spoken — had* she but uttered the 
natural inquiry — “ Did you hear that strange music, husband?” 
— how much easier had been her extrication. But she was 
silent, and I was again let loose upon a wide sea of fears and 
doubts and damnable apprehensions. Once more, and now with 
a feeling which would not have made me forbear the use of any 
weapon, however deadly, I re-examined my own enclosure, but 
in vain. The horrible thought which possessed me was that bo 
had even penetrated the dwelling while I was seeking him in 
the street ; that they had met ; and how was I to know the de- 
gree of tenderness which bad marked tkeii meeting and given 
sweetness to their adiens 1 


THE NEW HOMl, 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE NEW HOME. 

W ITH these revived suspicions, half stified, lut stiM 
gling in my bosom, did 1 commence my journey for the West. 
My arrangements were comprehensive, but simple. I had pro- 
cured a second-hand travelling carriage and fine pair of horses 
from an acquaintance, at a very moderate price — a price which, 
I well knew, I should easily get for them again on reaching my 
place of destination. I was my own driver. I had no money to 
spare in purchasing what might be dispensed with. A single trunk 
contained all the necessary luggage of my wife and self. What 
was not absolutely needed by the wayside was sent on by water. 
This included my books, desks, Julia’s painting materials, and 
such other articles of the household, as were of cost and not 
bulky. I had previously written — as I may have stated al- 
ready — to my friend Kingsley. He was to procure me tem- 
porary lodgings in the town of M . I left much to his 

judgment and experience. He had once before been in Alabama 
and having interests there, had made himself familiar with every- 
thing in that region, necessary to be known. I put myself very 
much in his hands. I was too anxious to get away to urge any 
difficulties or make any troublesome requisitions. He was sim- 
ply to procure me an abiding-place in some private family — if 
possible in the suburbs — until I should be able to look about 
me. Economy was insisted upon. I had precious little money 
to spare, and even the spoils of my one night’s visit to the gam- 
ing-house, were of no small help in sustaining!. 3 in my determi- 
nation to remove. I had not applied them previously. I con- 
fess to a feeling of shame when I was compelled by necessity at last 


296 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

to use them. I had saved somethiug already from my profes 
sional income, and I procured an advance on my furniture 
which was left for sale. I had calculated my expenses in re- 
moving and for one year’s residence in M , and was pre- 

pared, so far as poor human foresight may prepare itself, to keep 
want from our doors at least for that period. I tru.sted to good 
fortune, my own resources, and the notorious fact that, at that 

da}^ there were few able lawyers in M , to secure me an 

early and valuable practice. I carried with me letters from the 
best men in the community I had left. But I carried with me 
what was of more value than any letters, even though tbey be 
written in gold. I carried with me methodical habits and an 
energy of character which would maintain my resolution, and 
bear me through, to a safe conclusion, in any plan which I 
should contemplate. Industry and perseverance are the giants 
that cast down forests, drain swamps, level mountains, and create 
empires. I flattered myself that with these I had other and 
crowning qualities of intellect and culture. Perhaps it may 
be admitted that I had. But of what avail were all when 
coupled with the blind heart ? Enough — I must not anticipate. 

Filled with the exciting fancies engendered by the affair of 
the last night, I commenced my journey. The day was a fine 
one ; the sun cheery and bright without being oppressive ; and 
soon, gliding through the broad avenues, lined with noblest trees, 
which conducted us from the city to the forests, w^e had the 
pleasant carol of birds, and the lively chirp of hopping insects. 

I was always a lover of the woods ; green shady dells, and 
winding walks amidst crowding foliage. I cared little for mere 
flowers. A garden was never a desire in my mind. I could be 
pleased to see and to smell, but I had no passion for its objects. 
But the trees — the big, venerable oaks, like patriarchs and 
priests ; the lofty and swaggering pines in their green helmets, 
like warriors of the feudal ages — these ’were forms that I could 
worship. I may say, I loved trees with a real passion. Flow 
ers, and the taste for flowers seemed to me always petty ; but 
my instincts led me to behold a speaking and most impressive 
grandeur, in these old ^ords of the f rest, that had been the first, 
rising from the mighty moth . r to attest the wondrous strength 
of her resources, and the teeming glories of hei* womb. , 


TttE NEW HOME. 


297 


Now, however, they did not fill my soul with earnest reach* 
ings, as had ever been the case before. They soothed me some- 
what, hut the eyes of my mind were turned within. They 
looked only at the prostration of that miserable heart which 
was torturing itself with vague, wild doubts — guessing and con- 
jecturing with an agonizing pain, and without the least hope of 
profit. I could not drive from my thoughts, the vexing circum- 
stances of the last night in the city ; and, for the first day of our 
journey, the hours moved with oppressive slowness. Objects 
which I bad formerly loved to contemplate and always found 
sweet and refreshing, now gave me little pleasure and exacted 
little of my attention ; and I reached our stopping-place for the 
night with a sense of weariness and stupor which no mere 
fatigue of body, I well knew, could ever have occasioned. 

But this could not last. The elasticity of my nature, joined 
with the absence of that one person whom I had now learned 
to regard as my evil genius, soon enabled me to shake off the 
oppressive doubts and sadness which fettered and enfeebled me. 
Once more I began to behold the forests with all the eyes of 
former delight and affection, and I was conscious, after the prog- 
ress of a day or two, of periods in which I entirely lost sight 
of William Edgerton and all my suspicions in the sweet warmth 
of a fresh and pleasing contemplation. 

Something of this — nay, perhaps, the most of it, was due to 
my Avife herself. There was a change in her air and mannei 
which sensibly affected my heart. I had treated her coldly at 
first, but she had not perceived it ; at least she had not suffered 
it to influence her conduct ; and I was equally pleased and sur- 
prised to behold in her language, looks, and deportment, a degree 
of life and buoyant animation, which reminded me of the very 
champagne exuberance and spirit of her youth. Her eyes 
flashed with a sense of freedom. Her voice sounded with the 
silvery clearness of one, who, long pent up in the limits of a 
dungeon, uses the first moment of escape into the forests to de- 
light himself with song. She seemed to have just thi-own ofi 
a miserable burden ; — and, as for any grief — any sign of regret 
at leaving home and ties from which she would not willingly 
part — there was not the slightest appearance of any such feel- 
ing in her mind, look, or manner. Kindly, considerately, and 

13 * 


298 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

sweetly, and with a cheery smile in her eyes, and a springing 
vigor in the accents of her voice, she strove to enliven the way 
and to expel the gloom which she soon perceived had fastened 
itself upon my soul. Her own cares, if 'she had any, seemed to 
be very slight, and were utterly lost in mine. She spoke of our 
new abiding- place with a hearty confidence ; that it would be at 
once a home of prosperity and peace ; and, altogether convinced 
me for the time that the sacrifice must be comparatively very 
small, which she had made on leaving her birth-place. I very 
soon wondered that I should have fancied that William Edgerton 
was ever more to her than the friend of her husband. 

Our journey was slow but not tedious. Had our progress 
been only half so rapid, I should have been satisfied. It was 
love alone that my heart wanted. I craved for nothing but the 
just requital of my own passion. I had no complaint, no afflic- 
tion, when I could persuade myself that I had not thrown away 
my affections upon the ungrateful and undeserving. Assured 
now of the love of the beloved one, all the intense devotion of 
my soul was re awakened ; and the deepest shadows of the 
forest, gloomy and desolate as they were, along the waste tracts 
of Georgia and Alabama — in that earlier day — enlivened by 
the satisfied spirit within, seemed no more than so many places 
of retreat, where security and peace, combining in behalf of 
Love, had given him an exclusive sovereignty. 

The rude countryman encountered us, and his face beamed 
with cheerfulness and good humor. The song of the black soft- 
ened the toils of labor, in the unfinished clearings ; and even 
the wild red man, shooting suddenly from out the sylvan covert, 
wore in his visage of habitual gravity, an air of resignation which 
took all harshness from his uncouth features. 

Such, under the tuition of well-satisfied hearts, was our 
mutual experience of the long journey which we had taken 
when we reached the end of it. This we did in perfect safet^. 
We found our friend, Kingsley, prepared for and awaiting us. 
He had procured us pleasant apartments in a neat cottage in 
the suburbs, where we were almost to ourselves. Our landlady 
was an ancient widow, without a family. She occupied but a 
single apartment in her house, and left the use of the rest to 
her lodgers. This was an arrangement with which I was par- 


THE NEW HOME. 


299 


ticularly gratified. Her cottage lay half way up on the side of 
a hill which was crowned with thick clumps of the noblest 
trees. Long, winding, narrow foot-paths, carried us picturesque- 
ly to the summit, where we had a bird’s-eye view of the town 
below, the river beyond — now darting out from the woods and 
now hiding securely beneath their umbrage — and fair, smooth, 
lawn-looking fields, which glowed at the proper season with the 
myriad green and white plumes of corn and cotton. At the 
foot of the cottage lay a delightful shrubbery, which almost 
covered it up from sight. It v/as altogether such a retreat as a 
hermit would desire. It reminded me somewhat of the lovely 
spot which we had left. A pleasant walk of a mile lay between 
it and the town where I proposed to practice, and this furnished 
a necessity for a certain degree of exercise, which, being un- 
avoidable, was of the most valuable kind. Altogether, Kingsley 
had executed his commission with a taste and diligence which 
left me nothing to complain of. 

He was delighted at my coming. 

“ You are nearer to me now,” he said ; “ will be nearer at 
least when I get to Texas ; and I do not despair to see you 
making tracks after me when I go there.” 

“ But when go you 

“Not soon. 1 am in some trouble here. I am pleading and 
being impleaded. You are just come in season to take up the 
cudgels for me. My landrights are disputed — my titles. You 
will have something of a lawsuit to begin upon at your earliest 
leisure.” 

“ Indeed ! but what’s the business 

He gave me a statement of his affairs, placed his papers in 
my hands, and I found myself, on inspecting them, engaged in 
a controversy which was likely to give me the opportunity which 
I desired, of appearing soon in cases of equal intricacy and in- 
terest. Kingsley had some ten thousand dollars in land, the 
greater part of which was involved in questions of title and pre- 
emption, presenting some complex features, and likely to occa- 
sion bad blood among certain trespassers whom it became our 
first duty to oust if possible. I was associated with a spirited 
young lawyer of the place; a youth of great natural talent, 
keen, quick intellect, much readiness of resource, yet little ex 


300 CONFESSION, Oil THE BLIND HEART. 

perience and less reading. Like tlie great mass of our western 
men, however, he was a man to improve. He had no self-con- 
ceit — did not delude himself with the idea that he knew as 
much as his neighbor ; and, consequently, was pretty certain to 
increase in wisdom with increase of years. He had few preju- 
dices to get over, and though he knew his strength, he also 
knew his Aveakness. He felt the instinct of natural talent, but 
he did not deceive himself on the subject of his deficient knowl- 
edge. He was willing to learn Avhenever he could find a teach- 
er. His name Avas Wharton. I took to him at once. He Avas 
an ardent, manly fellow — frank as a boy — could laugh and 
Aveep m the same hour, and yet was as firm in his principles, as 
if he could neither laugh nor weep. As an acquaintance he 
Avas an acquisition. 

Kingsley Avas delighted to see me, though someAvhat wonder- 
ing that I should give up the practice at home, where I was 
doing so well, to break ground in a region Avhere I Avas utterly 
unknown. He gave me little trouble, however, in accounting 
to him for this movement. It was not difficult to persuade him 
— nay, he soon persuaded himself — that something of my pres- 
ent course was due to his OAvn counsel and suggestion. To a 
man, like himself, to whom mere transition was pleasure, it 
needed no argument to show that my resolve was right. 

“ Who the d — 1,’^ he exclaimed, “ would like ahvays to be in 
the same place? Such a person is a mere cipher. We estab 
lish an intellectual superiority when Ave show ourselves superior 
to place. A genuine man is always a citizen of the world. It 
is your vegetable man that can not go far without grumbling, 
finding fault Avith all he sees, talking of comforts and such small 
matters, and longing to get home again. Such a man puts me 
iji mind of every member of the cow family that I ever kneAv. 
He is never at peace Avith himself or the Avorld, but always 
groaning and thrusting out liis horns, until he can get back to 
his old range, and revel in his native marsh, joint-grass, and 
cane-tops. Englishmen are very much of this breed. They 
go abroad, grumble as they go, and' if they can not carry their 
cane-tops with them^ afflict the Avhole world with their lamen- 
tations. I take it for granted, Clifford, that this step to 
Alabama, is simply a step toAvard Texas. Your next wUJ 


THE NEW HOME. 301 

be to New Orleans, and then, presto, we shall see jou on the 
Sabine.” 

“ I hope not,” said my wife. “ You have got us into such 
comfortable quarters here, Mr. Kingsley, that I hope you will 
do nothing to tempt my husband farther. Go farther and fare 
worse, you know. Let well enough alone.” 

“ Oh, I beseech you ! — two proveibs at a time will be fatal 
to one or other of us. Perhaps both. But he can not fare worse 
by going to Texas.” 

“ He will do well enough here.” 

“ Pei’haps.” 

“ Becover your lands, for example, as a be^nning.” 

“ Ah ! now you would bribe me. That is certainly a sugges- 
tion to make me keep my tongue, at least until the verdict 
is rendered. ’Till then, you know, I shall make no permanent' 
remove myself.” 

“ But do you mean to go before the trial ?” I asked. 

“ Yes, for a couple of months or so. I should only get into 
some squabble with my opponents by remaining here ; and I 
may be preparing for all of us by going in season. I will look 
out for a township, Mrs. Clifford, on the edge of some beautiful 
prairie, and near some beautiful river. Your husband has a 
passion for water prospects, I can tell you, and would become 
a misanthrope without them. I am doubtful if he will be happy, 
indeed, if not within telescope distance from the sea itself I 
don’t think that a river will altogether satisfy him.” 

“Oh yes, this must;” and as she spoke she pointed to the 
fair glassy surface of the Alabama, as it stretched away, at in- 
tervals, in broad glimpses before our eyes. 

“ Well, we shall see ; but I will make my preparations, nev- 
ertheless, precisely as if he were not likely to be content, I 
have formed to myself a plan for all of you. I must make a 
dear little colony of our own in Texas. We shall have a nest 
of the sweetest little cottages, each with its neat little garden. 
In the centre we shall have a neat little playground for our 
neat little children ; on the hill a neat little church ; in the 
grove a neat little library ; on the river a neat little barge ; 
and over this neat little empire, you. Lady Clifford, shall be 
fhe neat little empress.” 


302 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Dear me ! wbat a neat little establishment !” 

“ It shall he all that, I assure you ; and it shall have other 
advantages. You shall have a kingdom free from taxes and 
wars. There shall be no law-givers but yourself. We shall 
have no elections except when we elect our wives, and the 
women shall be the only voters then. We shall have no cus- 
tomhouses — everything shall be free of duty; — we shall have 
no banks — everything shall be free of charge; — we shall have 
no parson, for shall we not be sinless V’ 

“ But what will you do with the neat little church 
“ Oh ! that we shall keep merely to remind us of what is 
necessary in less fortunate communities.’^ 

“ Very good ; but how, if you have no parsons, will you per- 
form the marriage ceremony ?” 

“ That shall be a natural operation of government. The 
voters having given their suffrages, you shall determine and 
declare with whom the majority lies, and give a certificate to 
that effect. The first choice will lie with the damsel having 
the highest number of votes ; the second with the next ; and 
so on to the end of the chapter ; and then elections are to take 
place annually among the unmarried — the ladies being the 
privileged class as I said before. You will keep a record of 
these events, the names of parties, and so forth ; and this record 
shall be proof, conclusive to conviction, against any party falling 
off from his or her duties.” 

“ Quite a system. I do not deny that our sex will have some 
new privileges by this arrangement.” 

“ Unquestionably. But you have not heard all. We shall 
have no doctors, for we shall have no diseases in the beautiful 
world to which I shall carry you. We shall have no lawyers, 
for we shall have no wrangling.” 

“ Indeed ; but what is my husband to do then V* 

“ Why, he is your husband. What should he do 1 He takes 
rank from you. You are queqn, you know. He will have no 
need of law ” 

“ There’s reason in that ; but how will you prevent wrang- 
ling where there are men and women 1” 

Oh, by giving the women their own way. The government 


tllE NEW HOME. SO 3 

is a despotism — you are queen — surely you will make no fur- 
ther objection to so admirable a system?” 

In good-humored chat like this, in which our landlady, Mrs. 
Porterfield — a lady who, though fully sixty-five years of age, 
was yet of a cheery and chatty disposition — took considerable 
part, our first evening passed aAvay. Though fatigued, we sat 
up until a tolerably late hour, enlivened by the frank spirit of 
oinr friend, Kingsley, and inspired by the n^.tural feeling of cu- 
riosity which our change of situation inspired. It was midnig it 
before we solicited the aid of sleep 


304 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE 8CENB. 

The next day was devoted to an examination of onr premises 
and the neighborhood. The result of this examination was 
such as to render us better satisfied with the change that we had 
made. We were still young enough to be sensible to the love- 
liness of novelty. Everything wore that purple light which 
the eye of youth confers upon the object. And then there was 
repose. That harassing strife of the “ blind heart” was. at rest. 
I had no more suspicions ; and my wife looked and spoke as if 
she had never had either doubts of me, or fears of herself, within 
her bosom. I was happiness itself, when, by the unreserved 
ease and gayety of her deportment she persuaded me that she 
suffered no regrets. I little fancied how much the change in 
my wife’s manner had arisen from the involuntary change which 
had been going on in mine. I now looked the love which I 
felt ; and she felt, in the improvement of my looks, the renewal 
of that fond passion which I had never ceased to feel, but which 
I had only too much ceased to show while suffering from the 
“ blini heart.” She resumed her old amusements with new 
industry. Our little parlor received constant accessions of new 
pictures. All our leisure was employed in exploring the sce- 
nery of the neighborhood ; and not a bit of forect, or patch of 
hill, or streak of rivulet or stream, to whish the genius of art 
could lend loveliness, but she picked up, in these happy ram- 
bles, and worked into fitting places upon our cottage walls. 

Our good old hostess became attached to us. She virtually 
surrendered the management of the household to my wife. She 
was old and quite infirm ; and was frequently confined for day? 


THE BLACK DOG OKCE MORE tJRON THE SCENE. S65 

to lier cliamber ; which must have been a solitary place enough 
before our coming. My wife became a companion to her in 
these periods of painful seclusion, and thus provided her with a 
luxury which had been long denied her. Under these circum- 
stances we had very much our own way. The old lady had 
few associates, and these were generally very worthy people. 
'^Ihey soon became our associates also, and under the influence 
of better feelings than had governed me for a long time past, I 
now found myself in a condition of comfort, cheerfulness, and 
peace, Avhich I fancied I had forfeited for ever. 

Two weeks after our arrival, Kingsley took his departure for 
Texas, on a visit. He proposed to be absent two months. His 
object, as he had described it before, in some pleasant exagger- 
ations, was to select some favorable spots for purchase, which 
should combine as nearly as possible the three prime requisites 
of salubrity, fertility, and beauty. His object was to speculate ; 
“ and this was to be done,” he said, “ at an early hour of the 
day.” “ The Spanish proverb,” he was wont to say, “ which 
regulates the eating of oranges, is not a bad rule to govern a 
man in making his speculations. Speculations (oranges) are 
gold at morning, silver at noon, and lead at night. It is your 
wise man,” he added, “ who buys and sells early ; your merely 
sensible man who does so at midday ; while your dunce, wait- 
ing for an increased appetite at evening, swallows nothing but 
lead.” 

I was in some respects a very fl)rtunate man. If I had been 

wise one ! It has been seen that I was singularly successful 
in business at my first beginning in my native city. I had not 

been long in the town of M , before I began to congratulate 

myself on the prospect of like fortune attending me there. The 
affairs of Kingsley brought me into contact with several men 
of business. My letters of introduction made me acquainted 
with many more ; not simply of the town, but of the neighbor- 
ing country. My ardency of temper was particularly suited to 
a frank, confiding people, such as are most of the southwestern 
men ; and one or two accidental circumstances yielded me pro* 
fessional occupation long before I expected to find it. I had 
occasion to appear in court at an early day, and succeeded in 
making a favorable impression upon my hearers. To be a good 


m 


COI^FESSION, Oft THE BLIND HEART. 

speaker, in the south and southwest, is to be everything. Elo 
quence implies wisdom — at least all the w'isdom which is sup- 
posed to he necessary in making lawyers and law-makers — a 
precious small modicum of a material by no means precious. I 
was supposed to have the gift of the gab in moderate perfection, 
and my hearers were indulgent. My name obtained circulation, 
and, in a short time, I discovered that, in a professional as well 
as personal point of view, I had no reason to regret the change 
of residence which I had made. Business began to flow in upon 
me. Applications reached me from adjoining counties, and 
though my fees, like the cases which I was employed in, 
were of moderate amount, they promised to be frequent, while 
my clients generally were very substantial persons. 

It will not need that I sliould dwell farther on these topics. 
It will be sufficient to show that, in worldly respects, I was as 
likely to prosper in my new as in my past abode. In social 
respects I had still more reason to be gratified. The days went 
by with me as smoothly as with Thalaba. My wife was all 
that I could wish. She was the very Julia whom I had mar- 
ried. Nay, she was something more — something better. Her 
health improved, and ^vith it her spirits. She evidently had 
no regrets. A sigh never escaped her. Her content and cheer- 
fulness were wonderful. She had none of that vague, vain 
yearning which the feeble feel, called “ home-sickness.” She 
convinced me that I was her home — the only home that she 
desired. It was evident that she thought less of our ancient 
city than I did myself. I am sure that if either of us, at any 
moment, felt a desire to look upon it again, the person was my- 
self. I maintained a correspondence with the place — received 
the neAvspapers, groped over them with persevering industry — 
nay — missed not the advertisements, and was disappointed and 
a discontent on those days when the mail failed. My wife had 
no such appetite. She so-metimes read the papers, but she ap- 
peared to have no curiosity ; and, with the exception of an oc- 
casional letter which she received from her mother, she had no 
intercourse whatever with her former home. 

All this was calculated to satisfy me. But this was not all. 
If gentleness, sweetness, cheerfulness, and a sleepless consider- 
ation of one^s wants and feelings, could convince any mortal of 


THE BLACK i/OG ONCE MORE Uf‘0.\ I’HE SCENE. 307 

fhe love of another — I must have been sati&fied. We resumed 
most of the habits which began with our marriage, but which 
L'-d rsen so long disc, ntinued. Wc rose with the sun, and 
J’ter his example. Like him we rose to the hill- 
tops, an: cnen escended into the valleys. We grew familiar 
with th . deepest shades of wood and forest while the dewdrops 
were yet beading the bosoms of the wild flowers; and we fol- 
lowed the meandering course of the Alabama, long before the 
smoking steamer vexed it with her flashing paddles. My pro- 
fessional toils from breakfast to dinner-time — for this interval 
I studiously gave to my office, even if I had little to do there 
— occasioned the only interregnum wliich I knew in the posi- 
tive pleasure? which I enjoyed. In the afternoon our enjoy- 
ments were renewed. Our cottage was so sweetly secluded, 
that we did not need to go far in order to find the Elysian grove 
which we desired. At the top of our hill we were surrounded 
by a natural temple of proud pines — guarding the spot from 
any but that sort of divine and religious light which streams 
through the painted windows of the ancient cathedral. The 
gay glances of the sun came gliding through the foliage in 
drops, and lay upon the grass in little pale, fanciful gleams, 
most like eyes of fairies peeping upward from its velvety tufts. 
Here we read together from the poets — sometimes Julia sung, 
even while sketching. Not unfrequently, Mrs. Porterfield came 
with us, and, at such times, our business was to detect distant 
glimpses of barge, or steamboat, as they successively darted 
into sight, along such of the glittering patches of the Alabama 
as were revealed to us in its downward progress through the 
woods. 

Our evenings were such as hallow and make th(3 luxury of 
cottage life — evenings yielded up to cheerfulness, to content 
and harmony. Between music, and poetry, and painting, my 
heart was subdued to the sweetest refinements of love. With- 
out the immorality, we had the very atmosphere of a Sybarite 
indulgence. I was enfeebled by the excess of sweets; and 
the happiness which I felt expressed itself in signs. These de- 
noted my presentiments. My apprehensions were my sole 
cause of doubt and sorrow. How could such enjoyments last ? 
Was it possible, with any, that they should last? Was U 


308 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEAR!. 


possible that they should last with me 1 I should have been 
mad to think it. 

But, in the sweet delirium which their possession inspired, I 
almost forgot the past. The soii of man is the most elastic 
thing in nature. Those harassing tortures of the hoart which I 
had been suffering for months — those weary days of exhaust- 
ing doubt — those long nights of torturing suspicion — the shame 
and the fear, the sting of jealousy, and the suffering — I had 
almost forgotten in the absorbing pleasures of my new exist- 
ence. If I remembered them it was only to smile ; if I thought 
of William Edgerton it was only to pity; — and, as for Julia, 
deep was the crimson shadow upon my cheek, whenever the re- 
proachful memory reminded me of the tortures which I had in- 
flicted upon her gentle heart while laboring under the tortures 
of my own — when T thought of the unmanly espionage which 
I had maintained over conduct which I now felt to be irre- 
proachable. 

But, just at the moment when I thus thought and felt — when 
I no longer suffered and no longer inflicted pain — when my 
wife was not only virtue in my sight, but love, and beauty, and 
grace, and meekness — all that was good and all that was dear 
besides; — when my sky was without a cloud, and the evening 
star shone through the blue sky upon the green tops of our cot- 
tage trees, with the serene lustre of a May-divinity — just then 
a thunderbolt fell upon my dwelling, and blackened the scene 
for ever. 

I had now been three months a resident in M , and never 

had I been more happy — never less apprehensive on the score 
of my happiness — when I received a letter from my venerable 
friend and patron, the father of William Edgerton. 

“ My son,” he wrote, “ is no better than when you left us. 
We have every reason to believe him worse. He has a cough, 
he is very thin, and there is a flushed spot upon his cheek which 
seems to his mother and myself the indubitable sign of vital 
decay. His frame is very feeble, and our physician advises 
travel. Under this counsel he set off with a favorite servant on 
Wednesday of last week. He will make easy stages through 
Tennessee to the Ohio, will descend into Mississippi, and return 
home by way of Alabama. He contemplates paying you a 


THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE SCENE. 309 


brief visit. I need not say, dear Clliford, how grateful I shall 
be for any kindness which you can show to my poor boy. His 
mother particularly invokes it. I should not have deemed it 
necessary to say so much, but would have preferred leaving it 
to William to make his own communication, were it not that she 
so particularly desires it. It may be well to add, that on one 
subject we are both very much relieved. We now have reason 
to believe that our apprehensions on the score of liis morals 
were without foundation. It is our present belief that he neither 
gamed nor drank. This is a consolation, dear Clifford, though 
it brings us no nighe?’ to our wish. It is something to believe 
that the object of our love is not worthless ; though it adds to 
the pang that we should feel in the' event of losing him. Our 
parting would be less easy. For my own part, I have little 
hope that his journey will do him any material benefit. It may 
prolong his days, but can not, I fear, have any more decided in- 
fluence upon his disease. His mother, however, is more san- 
guine, and it is perhaps well that she should he so. I know 
that when William reaches your neighborhood, you will make 
it as cheerful and pleasant to him as possible. The talent of 
your young and sweet wife — her endowments in painting and 
music — have always been a great solace to him. His tastes 
you know are very much like hers. I trust she will exercise 
them, and be happy in ministering to the comfort of one, who 
will not, I fear, trespass very long upon any earthly ministry. 
My dear Clifford, I know that you will do your utmost in be- 
Inalf of your earliest friend, and I will waste no more words in 
unnecessary solicitation.” 

Such was the important portion of the letter. In an instant, 
as I read it, I saw, with the instinct of jealousy, the annihila- 
tion of all my hopes of happiness. All my dreams were in the 
dust — all my fancies . scattered — my schemes and temples 
ovei-throwr. Bitter was the pang I felt on reading this letter. 
It said m^r. — -much more — in the very language of solicita- 
tion which good old father professed to believe unnecessary. 
He poured the language of a father’s grief and entreaty. 

I felt for the venerable man — the time friend — in spite of my 
own miserable apprehensions. I felt for him, but what could I 
do ? What would he have me do ? I had no house in which 


310 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

to receive liis son. He would lodge, perhaps, for a time, in the 
community. It could not be supposed that he would remain 
long. The letter of the father spoke only of a brief visit. 
Our neighborhood had no repute, as a place of resort, for con- 
sumptive patients. I consoled myself with the reflection that 
William Edgerton could, on no pretence, linger more than a 
M'cek or two among us. I will treat him kindly — give him the 
freedom of the house while he remains. A dying man, if so he 
be, must have reached a due sense of his situation, and will not 
be likely to trespass upon the rights of another. His passions 
must be subdued by this time. Ah ! but will not his condition 
be more likely to inspire sympathy ? 

The fiend of the blind heart prompted that last suggestion. 
It was the only one that I remembered. When I returned 
home that day to dinner, I mentioned, as if casually, the letter 
T had received, and the contents. My eye narrowly watched 
that of my wife while I spoke. Hers sunk beneath my glance 
Her cheeks were suddenly flushed — then, as suddenly, grew 
pale, and I observed, that, though she appeared to eat, but few 
morsels of food were carried into her mouth that day. She 
soon left the table, and, pleading headache declined joining mo 
in our usual evening rambles. 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG, 811 




CHAPTER XLI. 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG, - 

‘ Thus, then, I was once more at sea, rudderless — not yet 
companionless — perhaps, soon to be so. My relapse was as 
sudden as my thought. It seemed as if every past misery of 
doubt and suspicion were at once revived within me. All my 
day-dreams vanished in an instant. William Edgerton would 
again behold — would again seek — my wife. They must meet; 
I owed that to the father ; and, whatever the condition of the 
son might be, it was evident that his feelings toward her must 
be the same as ever; else, why should he seek her out? — why 
pursue our footsteps and haunt my peace ? I must receive him 
and treat him kindly for the father’s sake ; but that one bitter 
thought, that he was pursuing us, the deadly enemy to my peace 
— and now, evidently, a wilful one — gave venom to the bitter 
feeling with which I had so long regarded his attentions. 

It was evident, too, whatever may have been its occasion, 
that the knowledge of his coming awakened strange emotions 
in the bosom of my wife. That blush — that sudden paleness 
of the cheek — what was their language? I fain would have 
struggled against the conviction, that it denoted a guilty con- 
sciousness of the past — a guilty feeling of the future. But the 
mocking demon of the blind heart forced the assurance upon 
me. What was to be done? Ah ! what ? This was the ques- 
tion, and there was no variation in the reply which my jealous 
spirit made. There was but one refuge. I must pursue the 
same insidious policy as before. I must resort to the same subter- 
fuge, meet them with the same smiles, disguise once more the true 
features of my soul ; seem to shut my eyes, and afford them the 


312 CONCESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

same opportunities as before, in the torturing hope (fear ?) that 
I should finally detect them in some guilty folly which would 
be sufficient to justify the final punishment. I must put on the 
aspect of indifference, the better to pursue the vocation of 
the spy. 

Base necessity, but still, as I then fancied, a necessity not 
the less, Ah * was I not a thing to be pitied ? Was ever any 
case more pitiable than mine ? I ask not this question witli^ 
any hope that an answer may be found to justify my conduct. 

It is not the less pitiable — nay, it is more — that no such an- 
swer can be found. My folly is not the less a thing of pity, 
because it is also a thing of scorn. That was the pity — and 
yet, I was most severely tried. Deep were my sufferings ! 
Strong was that demon within me — I care not how engendered, 
whether by the fault and folly of others, or by my own — still 
it was strong. If I was guilty — base, blind — was I not also 
suffering? Never did I inflict on the bosom of Julia Clifford, 
so deep a pang as I daily — nay, hourly, inflicted upon my own. 
She was a victim, true — but was I less so! But she was in- 
nocently a victim, therefore, less a sufferer, whatever her suffer- 
ings, than me 1 Let none condemn or curse me, till they have 
asked what curse I have already undergone. I live! — they 
will say. Ah ! me ! They must ask what is the value oL life, 
not to themselves, but to a crushed, a blasted heart, like mine ! 
But I hurry forward with my pangs rather than my story. 

Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford 
and myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than 
I. What was that consciousness ? Ah ! could I have guessed 
that., there would have been no barrier — all might have been 
peace again. But a destiny was at work which forbade it all ; 
and we strove ignorantly with one another and against ourselves. 
There was a barrier between us, which our mutual blindness of 
heart made daily thicker, and higher, and less liable to over- 
throw. A coldness overspread my manner. I made it a sort 
of shelter. The guise of indifference is one of the most conve- 
nient for hiding other and darker feelings. Already we ceased 
to ramble by river and through wood. Already the pencil was 
discarded. We could no longer enjoy the things which so lately 
made us happy, because we no longer entertained the same con- 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 8.13 

fidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no 
communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that let- 
ter. The name of William Edgerton had done it all — his name 
and threatened visit ! 

But — and I read the letter again and again — it would be 
some time before he might be expected. The route, as laid 
down for him by his father, was a protracted one. “ Through 
Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, then homeward, by way of 
Alabama.” “ He can not be here in lizs than six weeks. He 
must travel slowly. He must make frequent rests.” 

And there was a further thought — a hope — which, though 
it filled my mind, I did not venture to express in words. “ He 
may perish on his route ; if he be so feeble, it is by no means 
improbable !” 

, At all events, I had six weeks’ respite — perhaps more. Such 
was my small consolation then. But even this was false. In 
less than a week from that time, William Edgerton ctood at the 
door of our cottage ! 

Instead of going into Tennessee, he had ;hot straight forward, 
through Georgia, into Alabama. 

Though surprised, I was not confounded by his presence. 
Under the policy which I had resolved upon, I received him 
with the usual professions of kindness, and a manner aa nearly 
warm and natural as the exercise of habitual art could make it 
He certainly did look very miserable. His features wore an 
expression of uniform despair. They brightened up, when he 
beheld my wife, as the cloud brightens suddenly beneath the 
moonlight. His eyes were riveted upon her. He was almost 
speechless, but he advanced and took her hand, which I observed 
was scarcely extended to him. He sat the evening with us, 
and a chilly, dull evening it was. He himself spoke little — 
my wife less ; and the conversation, such as it was, was carried 
on chiefly between old Mrs. Porterfield and myself. But 1 
could see that Edgerton employed his eyes in a manner which 
fully compensated for the silence of his tongue. They were 
seldom withdrawn from the quarter of the apartment in which 
my wife sat. When withdrawn, it was but for an instant, and 
they soon again reverted to the spot. He had certainly ac- 
quired a degree of boldness, which, in this respect, he had not 

14 


514 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


before possessed. I keenly analyzed his looks without prove* 
king his attention. It was not possible for me to mistake the unre- 
served admiration that his glance expressed. There was a strange 
spiritual expression in his eyes, which was painful to the spec- 
tator. It was that fearful sign which the soul invariably makes 
when it begins t exert itself at the expense of the shell which 
contains it. It was the sign of death already written. But he 
might linger for months. His cough did not seem to me op 
pressive. The flush was not so obvious upon his cheek. Fer- 
haps, looking through the medium of my peculiar feelings, his 
condition was not half, so apparent as his designs. At least, 1 
felt my. sympathies in his behalf — small as they were before — 
become feebler with every moment of his stay that night. 

“ Edgerton does not appear to me to look so badly,” I said to 
Julia, after his departure for the evening. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered ; “ he looks very pale and 
miserable.” 

“ Quite interesting !” I added, with a smile which might have 
been a sneer. 

“Painfully so. He can not last very long — his cough is 
very troublesome.” 

“ Indeed ! I scarcely heard it. He is certainly a very fine- 
looking fellow still, consumption or no consumption.” 

She was silent. 

“ A very graceful fellow : very generous and with accom- 
plisbments such r are possessed by few. I have often envied 
him his person and accomplishments.” 

“ You ?” she exclaimed, with something like an expression of 
incredulity. 

“Yes! — that is to say, when I was a youth, and when 1 
thought more of commending myself to your eyes, than of any- 
thing besides.” 

“ Ah 1” she replied with an assuring smile, “ you never need- 
ed qualities other than your own to commend yourself to me.” 

“ Pleasant hypocrite 1 And yet, Julia, would you not be 
better pleased if I could draw and color, and talk landscape 
with you by the hour 

“ No ! I have never thought of your doing anything of the 
kind.” 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 816 

“ Like begets liking.” 

” It may be, but I do not think so. I do not think we lova 
people so much for what they can do, as for what they are.’* 

“Ah, Julia, that is a great mistake. It is a law in moials, 
that the qualities of men should depend upon their performances 
What a man is, results from what he does, and so we judge of 
persons. Edgerton is a noble fellow ; his tastes are very fine. 
I suspect he can form as correct an opinion of a fine picture as 
any one — perhaps, paint it as finely.” 

She was silent. 

“Do you not think so, Julia 

“ I think he paints very well for an amateur.” 

“ He is certainly a man of exquisite taste in most matters of 
taste and elegance. 1 have always thought his manners partic- 
ularly easy and dignified. His carriage is at once manly and 
graceful ; and his dancing — do you not think he dances with 
admirable flexibility ?” 

“ Really, Edward, I can scarcely regard dancing as a manly 
accomplishment. It is necessary that a gentleman should dance, 
perhaps, but it appears to me that he should do so simply be- 
cause it is necessary ; and to pass through the measure without 
ostentation or offence should be his simple object.” 

“ These are not usually the opinions of ladies, Julia.” 

“ They are mine, however.” 

“ You are not sure. You will think otherwise to-morrcw^ 
At all events, I think there can be little doubt that Edgerton 
is one of the best dancers in the circle we have left ; he has the 
happiest ta.ste in painting and poetry ; and a more noble gentle- 
man and true friend does not exist anywhere. I know not to 
whom I could more freely confide life, wealth, and honor, than 
to him.” 

She was silent. I fancied there was something like distress 
apparent in her countenance. I continued: — . 

“ There is one thing, Julia, about which I am not altogether 
satisfied.” 

“ Ah !” with much anxiety ; “ what is that ?” 

“ I owe so much to his father, that, in his present condition, 
I fancy we ought to receive him in our house. We should not 


316 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

let him go among strangers, exposed to the noise and neglect 
of a hotel.” 

There was some abruptness in her answer : — 

“ I do not see how you can bring him here. You forget that 
we are mere lodgers ourselves ; indebted for oiu* accommodation 
to the kindness of a lady upon whom we should have no right 
to press other lodgers. Such an arrangement would crowd the 
nouse, and make all parties uncomfortable. Besides, I suppose 

Mr. Edgerton v/ill scarcely remain long enough in M i:o 

make it of much importance where he lodges, and when he finds 
the tavern uncomfortable he will take his departure.” 

“ But should he get sick at the tavern ?” 

“ Such a chance would follow him wherever he went. That 
is the risk which every man incurs when he goes abroad. He 
has a servant witli him — no doubt a favorite servant.” 

“.Sbould he get sick, Julia, even a favorite servant will not 
be enough. It will be our duty to make other provision for 
him. I owe his father much; the old man evidently expects 
much from me by his last letter. I owe the son much. He 
has been a true friend to me. I must do for him as if he were 
a brother, and should he get sick, Julia, you must be his nurse.” 

“ Impossible, Mr. Clifford !” she replied, with unwonted en- 
ergy, while a deep, dark flush settled over her otherwise 
placid features, which Avere now not merely discomposed but 
ruffled. “ It is impossible that I should be what you require. 
Suffer me, in this case, to determine my duties for myself. Do 
for your friend what you think proper. You can provide a 
nurse, and secure by money, the best attendance in the town. 
I do not think that I can do better service than a hundred others 
whom you may procure ; and you will permit me to say, with- 
out seeking to displease you, that I will not attempt it.” 

I was not displeased at what she said, but it was not my pol- 
icy to admit this. With an air almost of indignation, I replied : 

“ And you Avould leave my friend to perish V* 

“ I trust he will not perish — I sincerely trust he will continue 
in health while he remains here. I implore you, dear husband, 
to make no requisition such as this. I can not serve your frie&d 
in this capacity. I pray that he may not need it.” 

“ But should he ?” 


TEIAL — THE WOMAN- GROWS STRONG. 


211 


“ I can not serve him/’ 

Julia, you are a cold-hearted woman- — you do not love me.” 

“ Cold-hearted, Edward, cold-hearted ? Not love you, Ed- 
ward t — Oh, surely, you can not mean it. No! no! you can 
not !” 

She threw herself into my arms, clasped me fondly in herg, 
and the warm tears from her eyes gushed into m / bosom. 

“ Love me, love my dog — at least my friend !” I exclaimed, 
in austere accents, but without repulsing her. I could not re- 
pulse her. I had not strength tc put her from me. The em- 
brace was too dear ; and the energy with which she rejected a 
suggestion in which L proposed only to try and test her, maid 
her doubly dear at that moment to my bosom. Alas ! how, in 
the attempt to torture others, do we torture ourselves ! If ^ 
afflicted Julia in this scene, I am very sure that my own suffer- 
ings were more intense. One thing alone would have made 
them so. The one quality of evil, of the bad spirit which min- 
gled in with feelings, and did not trouble hers. But, just 
then I did not think her innocent altogether. I still had my 
doubts that her resistance to my wishes was simply meant to 
conceal that tendency in her own, the exposure of which she 
had naturally every reason to dread. The demon of the blind 
heart, though baffled for awhile, was still busy. Alas I he was 
not always to be baffled 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


SI 


n 


OHAPTBE XLII. 


€ItOS8 l'UE?0‘JE8. 

W:iEK8 ]jasc6d and still William Edgerton was a resident of 
M — , and ^ constant guest at our little cottage. He had, in 
cnis time, effectually broken up the harmony and banished the 
peace which had previously prevailed there. The unhappy young 
man pursued the same insane course of conduct which had been 
productive of so much bitterness and trouble to us all before ; 
and, under the influence of my evil demon, I adopted the same 
blind policy which had already been so fruitful of misery to my- 
self and wife. I gave them constant opportunities together. 
I found my associates, and pursued my pastimes — pastimes in- 
deed — away from home. Poetry and song were given up — 
we no longer wandered by the river-side, and upon the green 
heights of our sacred hill. My evenings were consumed in 
dreary rambles, alone with my own evti thoughts, and miserable 
fancies, or consumed with yellow-eyed watching, from porch or 
tree, upon those privacies of the suspected lovers, in which I 
had so shamefully indulged before. I felt the baseness of this 
vocation, but I had not the strength to give it up. I know 
there is no extenuation for it. I know that it was base ! base I 
base ! It is a point of conscience with me, not only to declare 
the truth, but to call things by the truest and most characteristic 
names. Let mo do my understanding the justice to say that, 
even when I practised the meanness, I was not ignorant — not 
insensible of its character. It was the strength only — the 
courage to do right, and to forbear the wrong — in which I was 
deficient. It was the blind heart, not the unknowing head to 
which the shame was attributable, though the pang fell not un- 
equally upon heart and head. 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


319 


Meanwhile, Kingsley returned from Texas. He became my 
principal companion. We strolled together in my leisure hours 
by day. We sat and smoked together in his chamber by night. 
My blind fortitude may be estimated, when the reader is told 
that Kingsley professed to find me a very agreeable companion. 
He complimented me on my liveliness, my wit, my humor, and 
what not — and this, too, when I was all the while meditating, 
with the acutest feeling of apprehension, upon the very last 
wrong which the spirit of man is found willing to endure ; — 
when I believed that the ruin of my house was at hand ; when 
I believed that the ruin of my heart and hope had already taken 
place : — and when, hungering only for the necessary degree of 
proof which justice required before conviction, I was laying my 
gins and snares with the view to detecting the offenders, and 
consummating the last terrible but necessary work of vengeance ! 
But Kingsley did not confine himself altogether to the language 
of compliment. 

Good fellow and good companion as you are, Clifford — and 
loath as I should be to give up these pleasant evenings, still 
I think you very wrong in one respect. You neglect your 
wife.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! what an idea ! You are not serious V* 

“ As a judge.” 

“ Psha ! She does not miss me.” 

“Perhaps not,” he answered gravely — “but for your own 
sake if not for hers, it seems to me you should pursue a more 
domestic course.” 

“ What mean you ?” 

“ You leave your wife too much to herself! — nay — let me be 
frank — not too much to herself, for there would be little danger 
in that, but too much with that fellow Edgerton.” 

“ What 1 You would not have me jealous, Kingsley ?” 

“No! Only prudent.” 

“ You dislike Edgerton, Kingsley.” 

“ I do ! I frankly confess it. I think he wants manliness of 
character, and such a man always lacks sincerity. But I do 
not speak of him. I should utter the same opinion with respect 
to any other man, in similar circumstances. A wife is a depen- 
dent creature — apt to be weak l-^tf yetihg, she is susceptible 


320 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


— equally susceptible to the attentions of another and to the 
neglect of her husband. I do not say that such is the case 
with your wife. Far from it. I esteem her very much as a re- 
markable woman. But women were intended to be dependents. 
Most of them are governed by sensibilities rather than by 
principles. Impulse leads them and misleads. The wife finds 
herself neglected by the very man who, in particular, owes her 
duty. She finds herself entertained, served, watched, tended 
with sleepless solicitude, by another ; one, not wanting either in 
personal channs and accomplishments, and having similar tastes 
and talents. What should be the result of this ? Will she not 
become indifferent where she finds indifference — devoted 
where she finds devotion ? A cunning fellow, like Edgerton, 
may, under these circumstances, rob a man of his wife’s affec- 
tions. Mark me, I do not say that he will do anything positive- 
ly dishonorable, at least in the world’s acceptation of the term. 
I do not intimate — I would not willingly believe — that she 
would submit to anything of the sort. I speak of the affections, not 
of the virtues. There is shame to the man in his wife’s dishonor ; 
but the misfortune of losing her affections is neither more nor 
less than the suffering without the shame. Look to it. I do 
not wish to prejudice your mind against Edgerton. Far from 
it. I have forborne to speak hitherto because I knew that my 
own mind was prejudiced against him. Even now I say nothing 
against him. What I say has reference to your conduct only. 
I do not think Edgerton a bad man. I think him a weak one. 
Weak as a woman — governed, like her, by impulse rather than 
by principle — easily led away — incapable of resisting where 
his affections are concerned — repenting soon, and sinning, in 
the same way, as fast as he repents. He is weak, very weak 

— washy-weak — he Avants stamina, and, wanting that, wants 
principle !” 

“ Strange enough, if you should . be right ! How do you 
reconcile this opinion with his refusal to lend you money to game 
upon 1 He was governed in that by principle.” 

“ Not a bit of it ! He was governed by habit. He knew 
nothing of gambling — had heard his father always preaching 
agaiiist it — it Wds not a temptation with liim. His tastes were 
. of ftijiitlter sort; lie cbUld not be tried in that way. The very 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


321 


fact tliat be was susceptible, in particular, to tlie charms of 
female society, saved him from the passion for gaming, as it 
would save him from the passion for drink. But the very tastes 
that saved him from one passion make him particularly suscepti- 
ble to another. He can stand the temptation of play, but not 
that of women. Let him be tried Mere, and he falls ! his prin- 
ciple would not save him — would not be worth a straw to a 
drowning man.’’ 

“You underrate — undervalue Edgerton. He has always 
been a true, generous friend of mine.” 

“ Be it so ! with that I have nothing to do. But friendship 
has its limits which it can not pass. Were Edgerton truly your 
friend, he would advise you as I have done. Nay, a proper 
sense of friendship and of delicacy would have kept him from 
paying that degree of attention to the wife which must be an 
hourly commentary on the neglect of her husband. I confess 
to you it was this very fact that made me resolve to speak to 
you.” 

“ I thank you, my dear fellow, but I have nothing to fear. 
Poor Edgerton is dying — music and painting are his solace — 
they minister to his most active tastes. As for Julia, she is im- 
maculate.” 

“ I distrust neither ; but you should not throw away your 
pearl, because you think it can not suffer stain.” 

“ I do not throw it away.” 

“ You do not sufficiently cherish it.” 

“ What would you have me do — wear it constantly in my 
bosom P’ 

“ No ! not exactly that ; but at least wear nothing else there 
so frequently or so closely as that.” 

“ I do not. I fancy I am a very good husband. You shall 
not put me out of humor, Kingsley, either with my wife or my- 
self. You shall not make me jealous. I am no Othello — I 
have no visitations of the moon.” 

And I laughed — laughed while speaking thus — though the 
keen pang was writhing at that moment like a burning arrow 
through my brain. 

“ 1 have no wish to make you jealolis, Clifford, and I very 
much admire your superiority and strengthi I congratulate yon 


322 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


on your singular freedom from this unhappy passion. But you 
may become too confident. You may lose your wife’s aficctions 
by your neglect, when you might not lose them by treachery.” 

“ You are grown a croaker, Kingsley, and I will leave you. 
I will go home. I will show you what a good husband I am, 
or can become.” 

“ That’s right ; but smoke another cigar before you go.” 

“ There it is !” I exclaimed, laughingly. “ You blow hot and 
cold. You would have me go and stay.” 

“ Take the cigar, at least, and smoke it as you go. My ad- 
vice is good, and that it is honest you may infer from my re- 
luctance to part with you. I will see you at the office at nine 
in the morning. There is some prospect of a compromise with 
Jeffords about the tract in Dallas, and he is to meet Wharton 
and myself at your law-shop to-morrow. It is important to 
make an arrangement with Jeffords — his exampla will be felt 
by Brownsell and Gibbon. We may escape a long-winded law- 
suit, after all, to your great discomfiture and my gain. But 
you do not hear me !” 

“ Yes, yes, every word — you spoke of Jeffords, and Wharton, 
and Gibbon — yes, I heard you.” 

“ Now I know that you did not hear me — not understanding- 
ly, at least. I should not be surprised if I have made you jeal- 
ous. You look wild, mon ami .'” 

“Jealous, indeed! what nonsense!” and I prepared to de- 
part when I had thus spoken. 

“ Well, at nine you must meet us at the office. My business 
must not suffer because you are jealous.” 

“ Come, no more of that, Kingsley !” 

“ By heavens, you are touched.” 

He laughed merrily. I laughed also, but with a choking ef- 
fort which almost cost me a convulsion as I left the tavern. The 
sport of Kingsley was my death. What he had said previously 
sunk deep into my soul. Not rightly — not as it should have 
sunk — showing me the folly of my own course without assu- 
ming, as 1 did, the inevitable wilfulness of the course of others ; 
but actually confirming me in my fears — nay, making them 
grow hideous as things and substantive convictions. It seemed 
to me, from wlint Kingsley said that I was already dishonored 


CItOSS PURPOSES. 


323 


— that the world already knew my shame; and that he, as my 
friend, had only employed an ambiguous language to soften the 
sting and the shock which his revelations must necessarily oc 
casion. With this new notion, which occurred to me after leav- 
ing the house, I instantly returned to it. It required a strong 
effort to seem deliberate in what I spoke. 

“ Kingsley,” I said, “ perhaps I did not pay sufficient heed 
to your observations. Do you mean to convey to my mind th^ 
idea that people think Edgerton too familiar with my wife 1 
Do you mean to say that such a notion is abroad ? That thortv 
is anything wrong 

“ By no means.” 

“ Ah ! then there is nothing in it. I see no reason for sus- 
picion. I am not a jealous man; but it becomes necsnsary 
when one’s neighbors find occasion to look into one’s business, 
to look a little into it one’s self.” 

“ One must not wait for that,” said Kingsley ; “ but where is 
your cigar ?” 

The question confused me. I had dropped it in the agitation 
of my feelings, without being conscious of its loss. 

“ Take another,” said he, with a smile, “ and let your cares 
end in smoke as you wend homeward. My most profound 
thoughts come from my cigar. To that I look for my philoso- 
phy, my friendship, my love — almost my religion. A cigar is 
a brain-comforter, verily. You should smoke more, Clifford. 
You will grow better, wiser — cooler T 

“I take your cigar and counsel together,” was my reply. 
“ The one shall reconcile me to the other. Bon ref os And 
so I left him. 

I was not likely to have hon repos myself. I was troubled. 
Kingsley suspects me of being jealous. Such an idea was very 
mortifying. This is another weakness of the suspicious nature. 
It loathes above all things to be suspected of jealousy. I hur- 
ried home, vexed with my want of coolness — doubly vexed at 
the belief that other eyes than my own were witnesses of the 
attentions of Edgerton to my wife. 

I stopped at the entrance of our cottage. He was there as 
usual. Mrs. Porterfield Avas not present. The candle was 
burning dimly. He .sat upon the sofa. J ulia was seated upon 


CONFfiSS:ON, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

chaii at a little die tr nee. Her features wore an expression of 
3 xc 3 edme; gravity. His were pale and sad, but bis eyes burnt 
V. i b an eager intensity that betrayed the passionate feeling in 
ns lieaxL Thus they sat— she looking partly upon the floor 
— he looking at her. I observed them for more than ten min- 
ites; and in all that time I do not believe they exchanged two 
?;i:teir:f.s. 

“ Surely,” I thought, “ this must be a singularly sufficing pas- 
sion which can enjoy itself in this manner without the help of 
language.' 

Of course, this reflection increased the strength of my suspi- 
cions. I became impatient, and entered the cottage. The eyes 
of Julia seemed to brighten at my appearance, but they were 
also full of sadness. Edgerton soon after rose and took his de- 
^larture. I believe, if I had stayed away till midnight, he would 
have lingered until that time ; but I also believe that if I had 
returned two hours before, he would have gone as soon. His 
passion for the wife seemed to produce an antipathy to the hus- 
band, quite as naturally as that which grew up in my bosom in 
jegard to him. When he was gone, my wife approached mo, 
almost vehemently exclaiming — 

“ Why, why do you leave me thus, Clifford ? Surely you 
3-an not love me.” 

“ Indeed I do ; but I was with Kingsley. I had business, 
and did not suppose you would miss me.” 

“ Why suppose otherwise, Edward ? I do miss you. I beg 
that you will not leave me thus again.” 

“ What do you mean 1 You are singularly earnest, Julia. 
What has happened? What has offended you? Was not 
Edgerton with you all the evening?” 

My questions, coupled with my manner, which haa been 
somewhat excited, seemed to alarm her. She replied hur- 
riedly : — 

“ Nothing has happened ! nothing has offended me ! But I 
feel that you should not leave me thus. It does not look welL 
It looks as if you did not love me.” 

“ Ah ! but when you know that I do !” 

“I do not know it. Oh, show me that you do, Edward. 
Stay with me as you did at first — when we first came here — 


CftOSS PURPOSES. S25 

when we were first married. Then we were so — so hap- 

py!” 

“ You would not say that you are not happy now 
“I am not! I do not see you as I wish — when I wish! 
You leave me so often— -leave me to strangers, and seem so in- 
different. Oh 1 Edward, do not let me think that you care for 
me no longer.” 

“ Strangers ! Why, how you talk ! — Good old Mrs. Porter- 
field seems to me like my own grandmother, and Edgerton has 
been my friend 

Did I really hear her say the single word, 

“ Friend 1” and with such an accent 1 The sound was a very 
slight one — it may have been my fancy only ; — and she turned 
away moment after. What could it mean? I was bewU- 
dered. I followed her to the chamber. I endeavored to renew 
the subject in such a manner as not to offend her suspicion?, 
but she seemed to have taken the alarm. She answered me in 
monosyllables only, and without satisfying the curiosity which 
that single word, doubtfully uttered, had so singularly awakens i 
“Only love me — love me, Edward, and keep with me, 

I will not complain. But if you leave me — if you negisci m? 
— I am desolate !” 


826 


CONFESSION. Otl THE BUND NEANT 


CHAPTER XLIIi. 

ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 

Th srk was something very unaccountable in all this. I say 
unaccountable, with the distinct understanding that it was unac- 
countable only to that obtuse condition of mind which is pro- 
duced by the demon of the blind heart. My difficulties of judg- 
ing were only temporary, however. The sinister spirit made 
his whisper conclusive in the end. 

“ This vehemence,’’ it suggested, “ which is so unwonted with 
her, is evidently unnaturah It is affected for an object. What 
is that object ? It is the ordinary one with persons in the wrong, 
who always affect one extreme of feeling when they would con- 
ceal another. She fears that you will suspect that she is very 
well satisfied in your absence; accordingly she strives to r.on- 
vmce you that she was never so dissatisfied. Of course yen 
can not believe that a man so well endowed as Edgerton, so 
graceful, having such fine tastes and accomplishments, can prove 
other than an agreeable companion ! What then should be 
your belief?” 

There was a devilish ingenuity in this sort of perversion. It 
1 ad its effect. I believed it ; and believing it, revolted, with a 
feeling of hate and horror, at the supposed loathsome hypocrisy 
of that fond embrace, and those earnest pleadings, which, in the 
moment of their first display, had seemed so precious to my soul. 
In the morning, when I was setting forth from home, she put 
her arm on my shoulder : — 

“ Come home soon, Edward, and let us go together on the 
hi.ll. Let nobody know. Surely we shall be company enough 


ACCIDENT AND MOKE AGONIES. 32.7 

for each other. I will sketch you a view of the river while 
you read Wordsworth to me.” 

“Now,” whispered my demon in my ears, “that is ingenious. 
Let nobody know ; as if, having a friend in the neighborhood — 
on a visit — he sick and in bad spirits — you should prppose to 
yourself a pleasure trip of any kind without inviting him to par- 
take of it ? She knows that to be out of the question, and that 
you must ask Edgerton if you resolve to go yourself.” 

Such was the artful suggestion of my familiar. My resolve 

— still recognising the cruel policy by which I had been so long 
governed — was instantly taken. This was to invite Edgerton 
and Kingsley both. 

“ 1 will give them every opportunity. While Kingsley and 
myself ramble together, well leave this devoted pair to their own 
cogitations, taking care, however, to see what comes of them.” 

I promised Julia to be home in season, but said nothing of 
my intention to ask the gentlemen. She thanked me with a 
look and smile, which, had I not seen all things through eyes 
of the most jaundiced green, would have seemed to me that of 
an angel, expressive only of the truest love. 

“Ah! could I but believe!” was the bitter self-murmUr of 
my soul, as I left the threshold. 

On my way through the town I stopped at the postoffice to 
get letters, and received one from Mrs. Delaney — late Clifford 

— my wife’s exemplary mother, addressed to Julia. I then 
proceeded to Edgertoii’s lodgings. He was not yet up, and I 
saw him in his chamber. His flute lay upon the toilet. Seeing 
it, I recalled, with all its original vexing bitterness, the scene 
which took place the night previous to my departure from my 
late home. And when I looked on Edgerton — saw with what 
effort he spoke, and how timidly he expressed himself — how 
reluctant were his eyes to meet the gaze of mine — his guilt 
seemed equally fresh and unequivocal. I marked him out, in- 
voluntarily, as my victim. I felt assured, even while convey- 
ing to him the complimentary invitation which I bore, that my 
liand was commissioned to do the work of death upon his limbs. 
Strange and fascinating conviction ! But I did not contemplate 
this necessity with any pleasure. No ! I would have prayed 

— I did pray — that the task might be spared me. If I thought 


328 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


of it at all, it was as the agent of a necessity which I could not 
countervail. The fates had me in their keeping. I was the 
blind instrument obeying the inflexible will, against which 

“ Reluctant nature strives in vain.” 

1 felt then, most truly, though I deceived myself, that I had no 
power, though every disposition, to save and to spare. I con- 
veyed my invitation as a message from my wife. 

“ Edgerton, my wife has planned a little ramble for this after- 
noon. She wishes to show you some of the beauties of land- 
scape in our new abode. She commissions me to ask you tc 
join us.” 

“ Ah ! did she V' he demanded eagerly, with a slight empha- 
sis on the last word. 

“ Ay, did she ! Will you come 

“Certainly — with pleasure!” 

He need not have said so much. The pleasure spoke in his 
bright eyes — in the tremulous hurry of his utterance. I turned 
away from him, lest I should betray the angry feeling which 
disturbed me. He did not seek to arrest my departure. He 
had few words. It was sufficiently evident that he shrunk from 
my glance and trembled in my presence. How far otherwise, 
in the days of our mutual innocence— -in our days of boyhood 
— when his face seemed clear like that of a pure, perfect star, 
shining out in the blue serene of night, unconscious of a cloud. 

Kingsley was already at my office when I reached it, and 
soon after came Mr. Wharton, followed by two of our opponents. 
We were engaged with them the better part of the morning. 
When the business hours were consumed, our transactions re- 
mained unfinished, and another meeting was appointed for the 
ensuing day. I invited Wharton as well as Kingsley to join 
us in our afternoon rambles, which they both promised to do. 
I went home something sooner to make preparations, and only 
recollected, on seeing Julia, that I had thrown the letter from 
her mother, with other papers, into my desk. When I told her 
of the letter, her countenance changed to a death-like paleness 
which instantly attracted my notice. 

“What is the matter — are you sick, Julia t” 

“No! nothing. But the letter--— where is it?” 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 


829 


“ 1 threw it on my table, or in my desk, with other papers, 
to have them out of the way ; and hurrying home sooner than 
usual, forgot to bring it with me. I suppose there’s nothing in 
it of any importance ?” 

“No, nothing, I suppose,” she answered faintly. 

I told her what T had done with respect to our guests. 

“ I am very sorry,” she answered, “ that you have done so. 
1 do not feel like company, and wished to have you all to my- 
self.” 

“ Oh, selfish ; but of this I will believe moderately ! As for 
company, with the exception of Wharton, they are old friends; 
and it would not do to take a pleasure ramble, with poor Edger- 
ton here, and not make him a party.” 

There was an earnest intensity of gaze, almost amounting to 
a painful stare, in Julia’s eyes, as I said these words. She re- 
ally seemed distressed. 

“ But really, Edward, our pleasure ramble is not such a one 
as would make it a duty to invite your friends. How difficult 
it seems for you to understand me. Could not we two stroll a 
piece into the woods without having witnesses?” 

“ Why, is that all ? Why then should you have made a for 
mal appointment for such a purpose ? Could we not have gone 
as before — without premeditation?” 

The question puzzled her. She looked anxious. Had she 
answered with sincerity — with truth — and could I have be- 
lieved her to have been sincere, how easy would it have been 
to have settled our difficulties. Had she said — “I really wish 
to avoid Mr. Edgerton, whose presence annoys me — who^will 
be sure to come — when you are sure to be gone — and whom I 
have particular reasons to wish not to meet — not to see.” 

This, which might be the truth, she did not dare to speak. 
She had her reasons for her apprehension. This, which was 
reasonable enough, I could not conjecture ; for the demon of the 
blind heart was too busy in suggesting other conjectures. It 
was evident enough that she had secret motives for her course, 
which she did not venture to reveal to me ; and nothing could 
be more natural, in the diseased state of my mind, than that 1 
should give the worst colorings to these motives in the conjee- 


§30 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

tures wliicli I made upon them. We were destined to play at 
cross-purposes mucli longer, and with more serious issues. 

Our friends came, and we set forth in the pleasant part of 
the afternoon. We ascended our hill, and resting awhile upon 
the summit, surveyed the prospect from that position. Then I 
conducted the party through some of our woodland walks, which 
Julia and myself had explored together. But I soon gave up 
the part of cicerone to Wharton, who was to the “ manor hornP 
He was a native of the neighborhood, boasted that he knew 
every “ bosky dell of this wild wood” and certainly conducted 
us to glimpses of prettiest heights, and groves, and far vistas, 
where the light seemed to glide before us in an embodied gray 
form, that stole away, and peeped backward upon us from long 
allies of the darkest and most solemn-sighted pines. 

‘But there is a finer spot just below us,” he said — “ a creek 
that is like no other that I have ever met with in the neighbor- 
hood. It is formed by the Alabama — is as deep in some places, 
and so narrow, at times, that a spry lad can easily leap across 
it.” 

“ Is it far ?” 

“No — a mile only.” 

“ But your wife may be fatigued, Clifford t” was the sugges 
tion of Kingsley. She certainly looked so ; but I answered for 
her, and insisted otherwise. I met her glance as I spoke, but, 
though she looked dissatisfaction, her lips expressed none. I 
could easily conjecture that she felt none. She was walking 
with Edgerton — and while all eyes watched the scenery, he 
watched her alone. I hurried forward with Kingsley, but he 
immediately fell behind, loitered on very slowly, and left Whar- 
ton and myself to proceed together. I could comprehend the 
meaning of this. My demon made his suggestion. 

“Kingsley suspects them — he sees what you are unwilling 
to see — he is not so willing to leave them together.” 

We reached the stream, and. wandered along its banks. It 
had some unusual characteristics. It was sometimes a creek, 
deep and narrow, but clear ; a few steps farther and it became 
what, in the speech of the country, is called a branch ; shallow, 
purling soft over a sand-bed, limpid yellow, and with a playful 
prattle that put one in mind of the songs of thoughtless chil- 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 


^ L X 

dren, humming idly as they go. The shrubbery along its . 
seemed to follow its changes. Where the bluffs were high, u. .. 
foliage was dense and the trees large. The places whero hy 
waters shallowed, were only dotted with shrub trees and wild 
vines, which sometimes clambered across the stream and wedded 
the opposing branches, in bonds as hard to break as those of 
matrimony. The waters were sinuous, and therefore slow. 
They seemed only to glide along, like some glittoring serpent, 
who trails at leisure his silvery garments through the woods, 
quietly and slow, as if he had no sort of apprehension. 

When we had reached a higher spot of bluff than the rest, 
Wharton, who was an active rather than an athletic, man, chal- 
lenged me to follow him. He made the leap having little space 
to spare. I had not done such a thing for some years. But my 
boyhood had been one of daring. The school in which I had 
grown up had given me bodily hardihood and elasticity ; at all 
events I could not brook defiance in such a matter, and, with 
moderate effort, succeeded in making a longer stride. I looked 
back at this moment and saw Julia, still closely attended by 
Edgerton, just about emerging into view from a thick copse that 
skirted the foot of a small hill over which our course had brought 
us. I could not distinguish their features. They were, however, 

! close together. Kingsley was on their right, a little in advance 

I of them, but still walking slowly. I pointed my finger toward 

a shallow and narrow part of the stream as that which they 
, would find it most easy to cross. A tree had been felled at the 

’ designated point, and just below it, in consequence of the 

obstructions which its limbs presented to the easy passage of 
the water, several sand bars had been made, by which, stepping 
from one to the other, one might cross dryshod even without 
the aid of the tree. Kingsley repeated my signal to those be- 
hind him, and led the way. I went on with Wharton, without 
again looking behind me. 

But few minutes had elapsed after this, when I heard Julia 
scream in sudden terror. I looked round, but the foliage had 
thickened behind me, and I could no longer see the parties. I 
bounded , backward, with no enviable feelings. My apprehen- 
sions for my wife’s safety made me forgetful of my suspiciona 
I reached the spot in time to discover the cause of her alarm. 


8311 CONFESSION, Oil THE 13LIND HEART. 

She was in the m-dst ol* the stream, standing upon one of the 
sandflats, steadying herself with difficulty, while she supported 
the Adiole form of William Edgerton, who lay, seemingly life- 
less, and half buried in one of the sluices of water which ran 
between the sandrifts. I had just time to see this, and to feel 
all the pangs of my jealousy renewed, when Kingsley rushed 
into the water to his rescue. He lifted him out to the banks as 
if he had been an infant, and laid him on the shore. I went to 
the relief of Julia, who, trembling like a leaf, fainted in my 
arms the moment she felt herself in safety. 

The whole affair was at that time unaccountable to me. It 
necessarily served to increase my pangs. Had I not seen her 
with my own eyes tenderly supporting the fainting frame of the 
man whom I believed to be my rival — whom I believed she 
loved ? Had I not heard her scream of terror announcing her 
interest in his fate — her apprehensions for his safety? His 
danger had made her forgetful of her caution — such was the 
assurance of my demon — and in the fullne s of her heart her 
voice found utterance. Besides, how was I to know what endear- 
ments — what fond pressure of palms — had been passing be- 
tween them, making them heedless of their course, and con- 
sequently, making them liable to the accident which had oc- 
cuiTed. For, it must be remembered, that the general impression 
was that Edgerton’s foot had slipped, and, falling into the stream 
while endeavoring to assist Julia, he had nearly pulled her in 
after him. His fainting afterward we ascribed to the same 
nervous weakness which had induced that of Julia. On this 
head, however, Kingsley was better informed. He told me, in 
a subsequent conversation, that he had narrowly observed the 
parties — rthat, until the moment before he fell, the hands of the 
two had not met — that then, Edgerton offered his to assist my 
wife over the stream, and scarcely had their fingers touched, 
v/hen Edgerton sank down, like a stone, seemingly lifeless, and 
falling into the water only after he had become insensible. 

All was confusion. Mine, however, was not confusion. It 
was commotion — commotion which I yet suppressed — a vol- 
cano smothered, but smothered only for a time, and ready to 
break forth with superior fury in consequence of the restraint 
put upon it. This one event, with the impressive spectaele of 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 333 

the parties in such close juxtaposition, seemed almost to render 
every previous suspicion conclusive. 

J ulia was soon recovered ; but the swoon of Edgerton was of 
much longer duration. We sprinkled him with water, subjected 
him to fanning and friction, and at length aroused him. Hia 
mind seemed to- wander at his first consciousness — he murmur- 
ed incoherently. One or two broken sentences, however, which 
he spoke, were not without significance in my ears. 

“ Closer ! closer ! leave me not now — not yet.” • 

I bent over him to catch the words. Kingsley, as if he fear- 
ed the utterance of anything more, pushed me away, and addres- 
sing Edgerton sternly, asked him if he felt pain. 

“ What hurts you, Mr. Edgerton 1 Where is your pain 

The harsh and very loud tones which he employed, had the 
effect which I have no doubt he intended. The other came to 
complete consciousness in a moment. 

“ Pain !” said he — “ no ! I feel no pain. I feel feeble only.” 

And he strove to rise from the ground as he spoke. 

“Do not attempt it,” said Kingsley — “you are not able. 
Wharton, my good fellow, will you run back to town, and bring 
a carriage ?” 

“ It will not need,” said Edgerton, striving again to rise, and 
staggering up with difficulty. 

“ It will need. You must not overtask yourself. The walk 
is a long one before us.” 

Meantime, Wharton was already on his way. It was a tedious 
interval which followed, before his return with the carriage, 
which found considerable difficulty m picking a track through 
tue woods. Julia, after recovery, had wandered off about a 
hundred yards from the party. She betrayed no concern — .lO 
uneasiness — made no inquiries after Edgerton, of whose condi- 
tion she knew nothing — and, by this very course, convinced me 
that she was conscious of too deep an interest in his fate to 
trust her lips in referring to it. All that she said to me was, 
that “ she had been so terrified on seeing him fall, that she did 
not even know that she had screamed.” 

“ Natural enough !” said my demon. “ Had she been able to 
(lave controlled her utterance, she would have taken pecions 


334 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

good care to have maintained the silence of the grave. Bat her 
feelings were too strong for her policy.” 

And I took this reasoning for gospel. 

The carriage came. Edgerton was put into it, but J ulia posi- 
tively refused to ride. She insisted that she was perfectly equal 
to the walk and walk she would. I was pleased with this de- 
termination, but not willing to appear pleased. I expostulated 
with her even angrily, but found her incorrigible. Chagrin and 
disappointmemc were obvious enough on the face of William 
Edgerton 

I took my seat beside him, and left Kingsley and Wharton to 
escort my wife home. We had scarcely got in motion before a 
rash determination seized my mind. 

“ You must go home with me, Edgerton. It will not do, while 
you are in this feeble state, to remain at a public tavern.” 

He said something very faintly about crowding and incon- 
veniencing us. 

“ Pshaw — room enough — and Julia can be your nurse.” 

His eyes closed, he sunk back in the carriage, and a deep 
sigh escaped him. I fancied that he had a second time fainted ; 
but I soon discovered that his faintness was simply the sudden 
sense of an overcoming pleasure. I knit my teeth spasmodical- 
ly together ; I cursed him in the bitterness of my heart, but 
said nothing. It was a feeling of desperation that had prompt- 
ed the rash resolution which I had taken. 

“ At least,” I muttered to myself, “ it will bring these dam- 
ning doubts to a final trial. If they have been fools heretofore, 
opportunity will serve to madden them. We shall see — we 
shall know all very soon ; — and then ! — ” 

Ay, then ! 


fttE DAMNING LETTER. 


336 


CHAPTER XLIV 

THE DAMNING LETTER. 

Mrs. Porterfield, good old lady, half blind, half deaf, in- 
firm and gouty, hut very good natured, easily complied with my 
request to accommodate my friend. My fiiend ! — She soon put 
one of her bed-rooms in order, and Edgerton was in quiet 
possession of it sometime before the pedestrians came home. 
When my wife was told of what I had done, she was perfectly 
aghast. Her air of chagrin was well put on and excellently 
worn. But she said nothing. Kingsley wore a face of unusual 
gravity. 

“ You are either the most wilful or the most indifferent hus- 
band in the world,” was his whispered remark to me as he hade 
me good night, refusing to remain for supper. 

I said something to my wife about tending Edgerton — seeing 
to his wants — nursing him if he remained unwell, and so forth 
She looked at me with a face of intense sadness, hut made 
no reply. 

“ She is too happy for speech,” said my demon ; “ and such 
faces are easily made for such an occasion.” 

I went in to Edgerton after a brief space ,*■ I found him feeble, 
complaining of chill. His hands felt feverish. I advised quiet 
and sent off for a physician. I sat with him until the physician 
came, but I observed that my presence seemed irksome to him. 
He answered me in monosyllables only ; his eyes, meanwhile, 
being averted, his countenance that of one excessively weary 
and impatient for release. The physician prescribed and left 
him, as I did myself. I thought he needed repose and desired to 
be alone. To my great surprise he followed me in less than 
half an hour into the supper-room, where he stubbornly sat out 


836 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

tlie evening. He refused to take the physic prescribed for him 
and really did not now appear to need it. His eyes were light- 
ed up with unusual animation, his cheeks had an improved 
color, ^nd without engaging very actively in the conversation, 
what he said was said with a degree of spirit quite uncommon 
with him during the latter days of our intimacy. 

Mr. Wharton spent the evening With us, and the hall of talk 
was chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, 
nothing save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of great- 
er gravity than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some 
effort to avoid any particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I 
turn my eyes without detecting his in keen examination of my 
wife’s countenance. At such times, his glance usually fell to the 
ground, but toward the close of evening, he almost seemed to 
despise observation, or — which was more probable — was not 
conscious of it — for his gaze became fixed with a religious 
earnestness, which no look of mine could possibly divert or un- 
fix. He solicited my wife to play on the guitar, but she de- 
clined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield, when she took up 
the instrument passively, and sung to it one of those ordinary 
negro-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I was sur- 
prised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested the 
taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under 
the tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be 
another proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though 
I did not think of this at the time, she might have employed 
the coarse effusion simply as an antidote against the predomi- 
nance of a morbid sentimentalism. There is a moment in the 
history of the heart’s suffering, when the smallest utterance of 
the lips, or movement of the form, or expression of the eye, is 
prompted by some prevailing policy — .some motive which the 
excited sensibilities deem of importance to their desires. 

She retired soon. Her departure was followed by that of Ed- 
geiton first, and next of Wharton. Mrs. Porterfield had already 
gone. I was alone at the entrance of our cottage. Not alone ! 
My demon was with me — suggestive of his pangs as ever — full 
of subtlety, and filling me with the darkest imaginings. The 
destroyer of my peace was in my dwelling. My wife may or 
may not be innocent. Happy for her if she is, but how can that 


THE DAMNING LETTER. 


887 


be known ? It mattered little to me in tlie excited mood wbicb 
possessed me. Let any man fancy, as I did, that one, partaking 
of his hospitality, lying in the chamber which adjoined his own, 
yet meditated the last injury in the power of man to inflict 
against the peace and honor of his protector. Let him fancy 
this, and then ask what would he his own feelings — what his 
course t 

Still, there is a sentiment of justice which is natural to every 
bosom with whom education has not been utter perversion. I 
neiieved much against Edgerton ; I suspected my wife ; I had 
seen much to offend my affections ; much to alarm my fears ; 
yet I J^new nothing which was conclusive. That last event, the 
occurrence of the afternoon, seemed to prove not that the two 
were guilty, but that my wife loved the man who meditated 
guilt. This belief, doubtful so long, and against which I had 
really striven, seemed now to be concluded. I had heard her 
scream ; I had seen her tenderly sustaining his form ; I had felt 
her emotions, when, the danger being over, her feminine nature 
gained the ascendancy and she fainted in my arms. I could no 
longer doubt, that If she was still pure in mind, she was no longer 
insensible to a passion which must lessen that purity with 
every added moment of its permitted exercise. Still, even with 
this conviction, something more was necessary to justify me in 
what I designed. There must be no doubt. I must see. I 
must have sufficient proof, for, as my vengeance shall be un- 
sparing, my provocation must be complete. That it might be 
so I had brought Edgerton into the house. Something more 
was necessary. Time and opportunity must be allowed him. 
This I insisted on, though, more than once, as I walked under 
the dark whispering groves which girdled our cottage, and 
caught a glimpse of the light in Edgerton’s chamber, my demon 
urged me to go in and strangle him. I had strength to resist 
this suggestion, but the struggle was a long one. 

I did not soon retire to rest. When I did, I still remained 
sleepless. But Julia slept. In her sleep she threw herself on 
my bosom, and seemed to cling about and clasp me as if with 
some fear of separation. Had I not fancied that this close em- 
brace was meant for another than myself, I had been more in- 
dulgent to the occasional moanings of distress that escaped her 

16 


§38 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEARt. 

lips. But, thinking as I did, I forced her from me, and in dclng 
so she wakened. 

“ Edward,’* she exclaimed on wakening, “ is it yon ?*’ 

“Who should it be?” I demanded — all my susp: 'iois re- 
newed by her question. 

“ I am so glad. I have had such a dream. Oh ? Edward, 
I dreamed that you were killing me !” 

“ Ha ! what could have occasioned such a dream V* 

M}’’ demon suggested, at this moment, that her dream had 
been occasioned by a consciousness of what her guilty fancies 
deserved. But she replied promptly : — 

“ Nay, I know not. It was the strangect fancy. 1 thought 
that you pursued me along the river — that my foot slipped and 
I fell among the bushes, where you caught me, and it was just 
when you were strangling me that I wakened.” 

“ Your dream was occasioned by the affair of the afternoon. 
Was nobody present but ourselves?” 

“Yes — there was a man at a little distance beyend and 
he seemed to be running from you also.” 

“ A man ! who was he ?” 

“ I don’t know exactly — his back wrjj turned, but it seemed 
as if it was Mr. Edgerton.” 

“ Ha ! Mr. Edgerton !” 

A deep silence followed. She had spoken her reply firmly, 
but so slowly as to convince me of the mental reluctance which 
she felt in uttering this part of the dream. When the imagina- 
tion is excited, how small are the events that confirm its ascen- 
dency, and stimulate its progress. This dream seemed to me as 
significant as any of the signs that informed the ancient augurs 
It bore me irresistibly forward in the direction of my previous 
thoughts. I began to see the path — dark, dismal — perhaps 
bloody — which lay before me. I began to feel the deed, al- 
ready in my soul, which destiny was about to require me to 
perform. A crime, half meditated, is already half committed. 
This is the danger of brooding upon the precipice of evil 
thoughts. A moment’s dizziness — a single plunge — and all is 
over ! 

I doubt whether Julia slept much the remainder of the night 
I know that I did not. She had her consciousness as well as 


TEE DAMNING LETTER. 


339 


mine. That I now know. The question — “ was her conscious- 
ness a guilty one V* That was the only question which re- 
mained for me ! 

Tho next morning I saw Edgerton. He looked quite as well 

on the previous night, but professed to feel otherwise — de- 
clined coming forth i>o breakfast, and begged me to send the 
physician to him on my way to the office. T immediately con- 
jectured that this was mere practice, for he had not taken the 
medicine which had been prescribed. 

He must keep sick to keep here,'* said my demon. “ He 
can have no pretext, otherwise, to stay !" 

When I was about to leave the house Julia followed me to 
the door. 

“ Don’t forget to bring mother’s letter with you,” was her 
parting direction. I had not been half an hour at the office be- 
fore a little servant-girl, who tended in the house, came to me 
with a message from her, requesting that the letter might be 
sent by her. 

This earnestness struck me with surprise. T remembered the 
expression in my wife’s face the day before when I told her the 
letter had been received. I now recalled to mind the fact, that, 
on no occasion, had she ever shown me any of her mother’s let- 
ters ; though nothing surely would have seemed more natural, 
as she knew how keen was my anxiety to hear at all times from 
the old maternal city. 

My suspicions began to warm, and I resolved upon another 
act of baseness in obedience to the counsel of my evil spirit. I 
pretended to look awhile for the letter, but finally dismissed the 
girl, saying that I had mislaid it, but would bring it home with 
me when I came to dinner. The moment she had gone I ex- 
amined this precious document. It was sealed with one of those 
gum wafers which are stuck on the outside of the envelope. In 
turning it over, as if everything was prepared to gratify my 
wish, I discovered that one section of the wafer had nearly 
parted from the paper. To the upper section of the fold 
it adhered closely. To the lower it was scarcely attached 
at all, and seemed never to have been as well fastened as the 
upper. 

temptation was irresistible. A very slight effort enabl^c] 


340 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

me to complete the separation without soiling the paper or frac- 
turing the seal. This was all done within my desk, the leaf of 
the desk being raised and resting upon my head. In this posi- 
tion I could easily close the desk, in the event of any intrusion, 
without suffering the intruder to see in what I had been en- 
gaged. Thus guarded I proceeded to read the precious epistle, 
which I found very much what I should have expected from 
such a woman. It said a great deal about her neighbors and 
her neighbors’ dresses; and how her dear Delaney was some- 
times “ obstropolous,” though in the end a mighty good man ; 
and much more over which I hurried with all the rapidity of 
disgust. But there was matter that made me linger. One or 
two sentences thrown into the postscript contained a volume. 
I read, with lifted hair and a convulsed bosom, the following 
passage : — 

“ Delaney tells me that Bill Edgerton has gone to travel. Ho 
says to Tennessee. But I know better. I know he can’t keep 
from you, let him try his best. But be on your guard, Julia. 
Don’t let him get too free. Your husband’s a jealous man, 
and if he was once to dream of the truth, he’d just as 
leave shoot him as look at him. I thought at one time 
he’d have guessed the truth before. So far you’ve played 
your cards nicely, but that was when I was by you, to tell 
you how. I feel quite ticklish when I think of you, and re- 
member you’ve got nobody now to consult with. All I can 
say is, keep close. It would be the most terrible thing if Clif- 
ford should find out or even suspect. He wouldn’t spare either 
of you. It’s better for a woman in this country to drag on and 
be wretched, than to expose herself to shame, for no one cares 
for her after that. Be sure and burn this the moment you’ve 
read it. I would not have it seen for the world. I only write 
it as a matter of duty, for I can’t forget that I’m your mother, 
though I must say, Julia, there were times when you have not 
acted the part of a daughter.” 

Precious, voluminous postscript ! Considerate mother ! “ Be 
on your guard, Julia. Don’t let him get too free !” Prudent, 
motherly counsel ! “ You’ve played your cards nicely.” Nice 

lady ! ” I feel quite ticklish !” Elegant sensibilities ! 

Enough ! The evil was done. Here was another n^ece o 


rafi DAMNING LETTEK. 


841 


damning testimony, indirect but conclusive, to show that I was 
bedevilled. I refolded the letter, but I could not place my lips 
to the wafer. The very letter seemed to breathe of poison. 
Faugh ! I put it from me, went to the basin, and wetting the 
end of my finger, sufficiently softened the gum to make it more 
effectually fasten the letter than when I had received it. This 
done, I proceeded to the business of the day with what appetite 
was left me. 


CONFF.SPTON. OB THE BLIND HEART. 




CHAPTER XLV. 

VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE. 

I DO not know how I got through with the business of that 
day. Even in my weakness I was possessed of a singular de- 
gree of strength. I saw Kingsley, Wharton, and all of the par- 
ties whom we met the day before. We came to a final decision 
on the subject of Kingsley’s claims ; I took down the heads of 
several papers which were to be drawn up; the terms of sale 
and transfer, bounds and characteristics of the land to be con- 
veyed ; and engaged in the discussion of the various topics which 
were involved in these transactions, with as keen a sense of 
business, I suspect, as any among them. The habit of suppres- 
sing my feelings availed me sufficiently under the present cir- 
cumstances. Kingsley said nothing on the subject of yester- 
day’s adventure, nor was I in the mood to refer to it. With 
some effort I was chee/’ful ; spoke freely of indifferent topics, 
and pleased myself with the idea of my own firmness, while per- 
suading my hearers of my good humor and my legal ability. I 
do not -deny that I paid for these proofs of stoicism. Who does 
not ? There is no such thing as suppressing passions which are 
already in action — at least, there is no such thing as suppres- 
sing them long. If the summer tempest keeps off to-day it will 
come to-morrow, and its force and volume is always in due pro- 
portion to the delay in its utterance. The solitudes of the for- 
est heard my groans and agonies when man did not — and the 
venom which I kept from my lips, overflowed and poisoned the 
very sources of life and happiness within my heart. 

I gave the letter to Julia without a word. She did not look 


VERGE OF” THE PRECIPICE. 


343 


at me wliile extending the hand to receive it, and hurried to her 
chamber without breaking the seal. I watched her departing 
form with a vague, painful emotion of inquiry, such as would 
possess the bosom of one, looking on a dear object, with whom 
he felt that a disruption was hourly threatened of every earthly 
tie. That. day she ate no dinner. Her brow was clouded 
throughout the meal. Edgerton was present, seemingly as well 
as at his first arrival. I had learned casually from Mrs. Porter- 
field that he had been in our little parlor all the morning ; while 
another remark from the good old lady gave me a new idea of 
the employment of my wife. 

“ This wrkii'ig/’ said she, addressing the latter, “ does your 
eyes no good. Indeed they look as if you had been crying 
over your task.” 

‘‘What writing?” I asked, looking at Julia, She blushed, 
but said nothing, and the blush passed off, leaving the sadness 
more distinct than ever. 

“ Oh, she has been writing whole sheets for the last two morn- 
ings. I vent in this morning to bring her out to assist me in 
entertaining Mr. Edgerton, who looked so lonesome ; and I do 
assure you I thought at first, from the quantity of writing, that 
you had given her some of your law-papers to do. The table 
was covered with it.” 

“Indeed!” said I — “ this must be looked into. It will not 
do lor the wife to take the husband’s business from him. It 
looks mischievous, Mrs. Porterfield — there’s something wrong 
about it.” 

“ Indeed there must be, Mr. Clifford, for only see how very 
sad it makes her. I declare, she looks this last few weeks like 
a very different Avoman. She does nothing now but mope. 
When she first came here she seemed to me so cheerful and 
happy.” 

All this was so much additional wormwood to my bitter. The 
change in Julia, which had even struck this blind old lady, cor- 
responded exactly with the date of Edgerton’s arrival. When 
I saw the earnest tenderness in his countenance as he watched 
her, while Mrs. Porterfield was speaking, I ceased to feel any 
sympathy for the intense sadness which I yet could not but see 
in hers. I turned aAvay, and leaving the tabic soon after, went 


•344 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

to our chamber, but the traces of writing wvre no longer* to be 
seen. The voluminous manuscripts had fdl been earefully re- 
moved. I was about to leave the chamber when Julia met me 
at the door. 

“ Come back ; sit with me,” she said. “ Why do you go off 
in such a hurry always ? Once it was .lot so. Edvrard.” 

“ What ! are you for the honeymoon again 

“ Do not smile so, and speak so irreverently !” che said, with 
a reproachful earnestness that csrt^.inly seemed to me very 
strange, thinking of her as I did. My evil spirit was silent. 
He lacked readiness to account for it. Bui he wa? not unadroit, 
and moved me to change the ground. 

“ But what long writing is this, Julia V* 

“ Ah ! you are curious ?” 

“ Scarcely.” 

“ Tell me that you are ?” 

“ What ! at the expense of truth V* 

“ No ! but to gratify my desire. I hoped you w-eie ; bat, cu- 
rious or not, it is for you.” 

“ Let me see it, then.” 

“ Not yet ; it is not ready.” 

“ What ! shall there be more of it I” 

“ Yes, a good deal.” 

“ Indeed ! but why take this labor ? Why not tell m.e what 
you have to say ?” 

“ 1 wish I could, but I can not. You do not encourage me,” 

“ What encouragement do you wish to speak to your hus- 
band V* 

“ Oh, much ! Stay with me, dear husband.” 

“ That will keep you from your writing.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps it will render it unnecessary.” 

“ At all events it will keep me from mine ;” and I prepared 
to go. She put her hand upon my shoulder — looked into my 
eyes pleadingly — hers were dewy wet — and spoke : — 

“Do not go — stay with me dear husband, do stay. Stay 
only for half an hour.” 

Why did I not stay ? I should ask that question of myself 
in vain. When the heart grows perverse, it acquires a taste for 
wilfulness. I, myself, longed to stay; could I have been per- 


VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE. 


345 


suaded that she certainly dcjsired it, I should have found my 
sweetest pleasure in remaining. But there was the rub — that 
doubt ! all that she said, looked, did, seemed, through the me- 
dium of the blind heart, to be fraudulent. 

“ She would disguise her anxiety, that you should be gone. 
Leave her, and in twenty minutes she and Edgerton will bo 
together.” 

Such was the whisper of my demon. I did leave her. I 
went forth for an hour into the woods — returned suddenly arid 
found them together ! They were playing chess, Mrs. Porter- 
field, with all her spectacles, watching the game. I did not 
ask, and did not know, till afterward, that the express solicita- 
tion of the old lady had drawn her from her chamber, and placed 
her at the table. The conjecture of the evil spirit proved so far 
correct, and this increased my confidence in his whispers. Alas ! 
how readily do we yield our faith to the spirit of hate ! how 
slow to believe the pure and gentle assurances of love ! 

Three days passed after this fashion. Edgerton no longer 
expressed indisposition, yet he made no offer to depart. I took 
care that neither word nor action should remind him of his tres- 
pass. I gave the parties every opportunity, and exhibited the 
manner of an indifference which was free from all disquiet — all 
suspicion. The sadness, meanwhile, increased upon the coun- 
tenance of Julia. She gazed at me in particular with a look of 
earnestness amounting to distress. This I ascribed to the 
strength of her passions. There was even at moments a harsh- 
ness in her tones when addressing me now, which was unusual 
to her. I found some reason for this, equally unfavorable to 
her fidelity. After dinner I said to Edgerton : — 

“ You are scarcely strong enough for a bout at the bottle. I 
take wine with Kingsley this afternoon. He has commissioned 
me to ask you.” 

“ I dare not venture, but that should not keep you away.” 

“ It will not,” I said indifferently. 

Thank him for me, if you please, but tell him it will not do 
for one so much an invalid as myself.” 

“ Very good !” and I left him, and joined Kingsley. The 
business of this friend being now in a fair train for final adjust- 
ment, he was preparing for his return to Texas. He had not 

15 * 


346 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

been at my lodgings since Edgerton’s arrival in M , but we 

had seen each other, nevertheless, almost every day at his or at 
my office. Our afternoon was rather merry than cheerful. 
Heaven knows I was in no mood to be a hon cmnpagnon, hwi I 
took sufficient pains that Kingsley should not suspect I had any 
reasons for being otherwise. I had my jest — I emptied my 
Dottle — I said my good things, and seemed to say them without 
effort. Kingsley, always cheerful and strong-minded, was in 
his best vein, and mingling Wit and reflection happily together, 
maintained the ball of conversation with equal ease and felicity. 
He had the happy knack of saying happy things quietly — of 
waiting for, and returning the ball, without running after it. 
At another time, I should have been content simply to have 
provoked him. Now, I was quite too miserable not to seek em- 
ployment ; and to disguise feelings, which I should have been 
ashamed to expose, I contrived to take the lead and almost grew 
voluble in the frequency of my utterance. Perhaps, if Kingsley 
failed in any respect as a philosopher, it was in forbearing to 
look with sufficient keenness of observation into the heart of his 
neighbor. He evidently did not see into mine. He was de- 
ceived by my manner. He credited all my fun to good faith, 
and gravely pronounced me to be a fortunate fellow. 

“ How I demanded with a momentary cessation of the jest, 
llis gravity and — to me — the strange error in such an obser- 
vation-excited my curiosity 

“ In your freedom from jealousy.” 

“ Oh ! that, eh ? But why should I be jealous ?” 

“ It is not exactly why a man should be jealous — but why, 
knowing what men are, usually, that you are not. Nine men 
in ten would be so under your circumstances V* 

** How, what circumstances ?” 

“With Edgerton in your house — evidently fond of your 
wife, you leave them utterly to themselves. You bring him into 
your house unnecessarily, and give him every opportunity. I 
still think you risk everything imprudently. You may pay 
for it.” 

I felt a strange sickness at my heart. I felt that the flame 
was beginning to boil up within me. 'Fhe perilous turning-point 
of passion — the crisis of strength aiid endurance-^ was at hand. 


VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE. 


847 


eyes settled gloomily upon the table. I was silent longei 
than usual. I felt tJiat^ and 1 joked up. The keen glance of 
Kingsley was upon me. It would not do to suffer him to read 
my feelings. I replied with some precipitation : — 

“ I see, Kingsley, you are not cured of your prejudices against 
Edgerton.” 

“1 am not — I have seen nothir.g to cure me. But my preju- 
dice against him, has nothing to do witfci my opinion of your 
prudence. Were it any other man, the case would be the 
same.” 

“ Well, but I do not tL;nk i‘ so clear that Edgerton loves my 
wife more than is natural Mind proper.” 

“Of the naturalness of his love I say nothing — perhaps, 
nothing could b'* more natural. But that he does love her, and 
loves her as no married woman should be loved, by ancthar than 
her husband, is cl^ar enough.” 

“ Suppose, then, it be as you say ! So long as he does noth- 
ing improperly, there is nothing to be said. There is no evil.” 

“ Ah, but there is evil. There is danger.” 

“ How ? I do not see.” 

“ Suppose your wife makes the same discovery which other 
persons have made ? Suppose she finds out that Edgerton loves 
her ?” 

“ Well — what then ?” 

“ She can not remain uninfluenced by it. It will affect her 
feelings sensibly in some way. No creature in the world can 
remain insensible to the attachment of another.” 

“ Indeed ! Why, agreeable to that doctrine, there could be 
no security from principle. There could be no virtue certain — 
nay, not even love.” 

“ Do not ni'staks uae. When I say she would be influenced 
— I do not mean to cay that she would be so influenced as tc 
requite the illicit sentiriient. Far from it. But she must pity 
or she must scorn. She may despise or she may deplore, In 
either case her feelings would be aroused, and in either case 
would produce uneasiness if not unhappiness. I know, Olifibrd, 
that your wife perceives the passion of Edgerton — I am confi- 
dent, also, that it has influenced her feelings. What may be 
the sentiment produced by this influence I do not pretend to 


848 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


say. I would not insinuate that it is more than would be natu- 
ral to the breast of any virtuous woman. She may pity or she 
may scorn — she may despise or she may deplore. I know not. 
But, in either case, I regard your bringing Edgerton into the 
house and conferring upon him so many opportunities, as being 
calculated either to make yourself or your wife miserable. In 
either event you have done wrong. Look to it — remedy it as 
soon as you can.” 

My face burned like fire. My eyes were fixed upon the table. 
1" dared not look upon my companion, ''^hcn I spoke, I felt a 
choking difficulty in my utterance which compelled me to speak 
loud to be understood, and which yet left my speech thick, 
husky, and unnatural. 

“ Say no more, Kingsley. What you have said disturbs me 
Nay, I acknowledge, I have been disturbed before. Perhaps, 
indeed, I know more than yourself. Time will show. At ail 
events, be sure of one thing. These opportunities, if what you 
say be true, afford an ordeal through which it is necessary that 
the parties should now go — if it be only to afford the necessary 
degree of relief to my mind. Enough has been seen to excite 
suspicion — enough has been done, you yourself think, to awaken 
the feelings of my wife. Those feelings must now be tried. 
Opportunity will do this. She must go through the trial. I 
am not blind as you suppose. Nay, I am watchful, and I tell 
you, Kingsley, that the time approaches when all my doubts 
must cease one way or the other.” 

“ But I still think, Clifford — ” he began. 

“ No more, Kingsley. I tell you, matters must go on. Ed- 
gerton can now only be driven from my house by my wife. If 
she expels him, I shall be too happy not to forgive him. But 
if she makes it necessary that the expulsion shall be effected by 
my hands, and with violence — Gcd have mercy upon both of 
them, for I shall not. Good night!” 

“ But why will you go 1 Stay awhile longer. Be not rash 

— do nothing precipitately, Clifford.” 

I smiled bitterly in leplying: — 

” You need not foar me. Have I not proved myself patient 

— patient until you pronounced me cold and indifferent ] Why 
should y-.u s ippose that, having waited and forborne so long. 


349 


OF THE PRECIPICE 

I should be guilty of rashness now ? No, Kingsley ! My wife 
is very dear to me — how dear I will not say; I will he delib- 
erate for her sake — for my own. I will he sure, very sure — 
quite sure; — hut, once sure! — Good night.” 

Kingsley followed me to the door. His last injunctions ex- 
horted me to forbearance and deliberation. I silenced them by 
a significant repetition of the single words, “ Good night — good 
night!” and hurried, with every feeling of anxiety and jealousy 
awakened, in the direction of my cottage. 


350 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE UNBRIDLED MADNESS. 

The uiglit did not promise to be a good one. The clouds 
were scudding wildly from east to west. The air was moist 
and chill. There was no light from moon or stars, and I strode 
with difficulty, though still rapidly, through the unpaved streets. 
I was singularly and painfully excited by the conversation with 
Kingsley. My own experience before, had prepared me to be- 
come so, Avith the slightest additional provocation. Facts were 
rapidly accumulating to confirm my fears, and lessen my doubts. 
That dark, meaning letter of Mrs, Delaney ! The adventure 
in the streamlet. — The scream — the look — the secrecy ! What 
a history seemed to be compressed in these few topics. 

I hurried forward — I -was now among the trees. I had al- 
most to grope my way, it was so dark. I was helped forward 
by some governing instincts. My fiend was busy all the while. 
I fancied, now, that there was something exulting in his tone. 
But he drove me forward without forbearance. I felt that these 
clouds in the sky — this gloom and excitement in my heart — 
were not for nothing. Every gust of wind brought to me some 
whisper of fear ; and there seemed a constant murmur among 
the trees — one burden — whose incessant utterance was only 
shame and wo. How completely the agony of one’s spirit 
sheds its tone of horror upon the surrounding world. How the 
flowers wither as our hearts wither — how sickly grows sunlight 
and moonlight, in our despair — how lonely and utter sad is the 
breath of winds, when our bosoms are about to be laid bare 
of hope and sustenance by the brooding tempest of our 
sorrows. 

I had a terrible prescience of some dreadful experience 
which awaited me as I drove forward. Obstructions of tree 
and shrub, and tangled vines, encountered me, but did not long 


THE UNBRIDLED MADNESS., 351 

ft 

arrest, and I really felt them not. I put then aside without a 
consciousness. 

At length a glimmering light informed me I \7as near the 
cottage. I could see the heavy dark masses of foliage that 
crowded before the entrance. The light was in the parlor. 
There was also one in the room of Mrs. Porterfield. Ours, 
which was on the same floor with hers, was in darkness. I 
never experienced sensations more like those of a drunken man 
than when, working my way cautiously among the trees, I ap- 
proached the window The glasses were down, possibly in 
consequence of the violence of the gust. But there was one 
thing unusual. The curtains were also down at both windows. 
These curtains were half-curtains cnly. They fell from the 
upper edge of the lower sash, and wars simply meant to protect 
the inmates from the casual glance of persons in front. The 
house was on an elevation of two or three feet from the ground. 
It was impossible to see into the apartment unless I could raise 
rayself at least that much above my own stature. I looked 
around me for a stump, bench, block — anything; but 
was nothing, or in the darkness I failed to find it. T: :“amber 
up against the side of the house would ba^.e disiuibst. the in- 
mates. I ascended a tree, and buried within its leaves, looked 
directly intc- the apartment. 

They were together! alone! — at the eternal chess! Julia 
sat upon the sofa. Edgerton in front of her. A small table 
stoud between th^m. I had arrived at an opportune moment. 
Julia’s hand was extended to the board. I saw the very piece 
it rested upon. It was the white queen ; but, just at that mo- 
ment — nothing could be more clearly visible — the hand of 
Edgerton was laid upon hers. She instantly withdrew it, and 
looked upward. Her face was the color of carnation — flushed 

so said my demon, with the overwhelming passions in her 

breast. The next r?oiL.snt the table was thrust aside — the 
chess-men tumblea tpon the floor, and Edgerton kneeling be- 
fore my wife had grasped her about the waist, and was drag- 
ging her to his knee. 

I saw no more. A sudden darkness passed over my eyes. A 
keen, quick, thrilling pang went through tny whole frame, and I 
fell from the tree, upon the earth beloti^ in utter unconsciousness 


352 CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 

€ 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

FATAL SILENCE. 

viTLAWGE and cruel destiny ! When everything depended 
^:pon my firmness, I was overwhelmed by feebleness. It seemed 
as if I had not before believed that this terrible moment of 
confirmation would come. And yet, if anybody could have 
been prepared for such a discovery, I should have been. I had 
blooded ever it for months. A thousand times had my imagi- 
nation i.Lotured it to me in the most vivid and fearfiil aspect. 
I fancied that I should have been steeled by conviction against 
every other feeling but that of vengeance. But in reality, my 
hope was so sanguine, my love for Julia so fervent, I did not, 
amidst all my fears, really believe that such a thing could ever 
prove true. All my boasted planning and preparation, and es- 
pionage, had only deceived myself. I believed, at worst, that 
Julia might be brought to love William Edgerton, but that he 
would presume to give utterance to his L ve, and that she would 
submit to listen, was not truly within my belief. I had not 
been prepared for this, however much, in my last interview with 
Kingsley, I had professed myself to be'. 

But had she submitted ? That was still a question. I had 
seen nothing beyond what I have st&tt:’. His audacious hand 
had rested upon hers — his impious arm had encircled her waist, 
and then my blindness and darkness followed, T was struck as 
completely senseless, and fell from the tree with as little seem- 
ing life, as if a suddeii Bullet had traversed my heart. 

In this state I lay. How long I know not — it must have 
beeii for Se’vcrjti hours* I was brought to consciousness by a 


FATAL SILENCE. 


853 


sense of cold. T was benumbed — a steady rain was falling, 
and from the condition of my clothes, which were completely 
saturated, must have been falling for some time previous. I 
rose with pain and difficulty to my feet. I was still as one 
stunned and stupified, by one of those extremes of suffering for 
which the overcharged heart can find no sufficient or sufficient- 
ly rapid method of relief. When T rose, the light was no longer 
in the parlor. The parties were withdrawn. 

Horrible thought ! That I should have failed at that trying 
moment. I kncAv everything — I knew nothing. It was still 
possible that Julia had repulsed him. I had seen his audacity 
only — was it followed by her guilt 1 How shall that be known % 
I could answer this question as Kingsley would have answered it. 

“ If your wife be honest, she must now reveal the truth. 
She can no longer forbear. The proceeding of Edgerton has 
been too decided, and she shares his guilt if she longer keeps it 
secret. The wife who submits to this form of insult, without 
seeking protection where alone it may be found, clearly shows 
that the offence is grateful to her — that she deems it no insult.” 

That, then, shall be the test ! So I determined. Edgerton 
must be punished. There is no escape. But for her — if she 
does not seek the earliest occasion to reveal the truth, she is 
guilty beyond doubt — doomed beyond redemption. 

I entered the house with difficulty. I was as feeble as if I 
had been under the hands of the physician for weeks. A light 
was burning on the staircase. I took it and went into the par- 
lor, Avhich I narrowly examined. There were no remaining 
proofs of the late disorder. The table was set against the wall. 
The chess-men were all gathered up, and neatly put away in 
the box, which stood upon the mantel. 

“ There is proof of coolness and deliberation here !” I mut- 
tered to myself, as I took my way up-stairs. When I entered 
my chamber, I felt a pang, the fore-runner of a spasm. I had 
been for several years afflicted with these spasms, in great or 
small degree. They marked every singular mental excitement 
under which I labored. It was no doubt one of these spasms 
which had seized and overpowered me while I sat within the 
tree. Never before had I suffered from one so severe ; but the 
violence of this was naturally due to the extreme of agony — as 


854 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sudden as it was terrible — which seized upon my soul. My 
physician had provided me with a remedy against these attacks 
to which I was accustomed to resort. This, though a potent 
remedy, was also a potent poison. It was a medicine called 
the hydrocyanic or prussic acid. Fi\'e minims was a dose, but 
two drops were death. I went to the medicine-case which 
stood beneath the head of the bed, with the view to getting out 
the vial ; but my wife started up eagerly as I approached, and 
with trembling accfents, demanded what was the matter. She 
saw me covered with mud and soaking with water. I told her 
that 1 had got wet coming homeward and had slipped down 
the hill. 

“Why did you stay so late — why not come home sooner, 
dear husband ?” 

“ Hypocrite !’' I muttered while stooping down for the chest 

‘You are sick — you have your spasms!” she now said, 
rising from the bed and offering to measure the medicine. This 
she had repeatedly done before ; but I was not now willing to 
trust her. Doubts of her fidelity led to other doubts. 

“If she is prepared to dishonor, she is prepared to destroy 
you !” said my familiar. 

This suggestion seized upon my brain, and while I measured 
out the minims, the busy fiend reminded me that I grasped the 
bane as well as the antidote in my hand. A stern, a terrible 
image of retributive justice presented itself before my thoughts. 
The feeling of an awful necessity grew strong within me. 
“ Shall the adulterer alone perish ? Shall the adultress escape?” 
The fiend answered with tremulous but stern passion — “She 
shall surely die 1” 

“ If she reveals not the truth in season,” I said in my secret 
soul ; “ if she claims not protection at my hands against the 
adulterer, she shall share his fate !” and with this resolve, even 
at the moment when I was measuring the antidote for myself, I 
resolved that the same vial should furnish the bane for her I 

The medicine relieved me, though not with the same prompt- 
ness as usual. I looked at the watch and found it two o’clock. 
My wife begged me to come to bed, but that was impossible. 
I proceeded to change my garments. By the time that I had 
finished, theraiii ceased, the stars came out, the morning prom- 


I'tlE FATAL silence. 


855 


ised to be clear. I determined to set forth from my office. I 
had no particular purpose ; hut I felt that I could not meditate 
where she was. She continually spoke to me-— always tendferly 
and with great earnestness. 1 pleaded my spasms as a reason 
for not lying down. But I lingered. I was as unwilling to go 
as to stay. I longed to hear her narrative ; and, once or twice, 
I fancied that she wished to tell me something. But she did 
not. I waited till hear daylight, in order that she should have 
every opportunity, but she said little beyond making profes- 
sions of love, and imploring me to come to bed. 

In sheer despair, at last, I went out, taking my pistol-case, 
unperceived by her, under my arm. I went to my office where 
I locked it up. There I seated myself, brooding in a very 
whirlwind of thought, until after daylight. 

When the sun had risen, I went to a man in the neighbor- 
hood who hired out vehicles. I ordered a close carriage to bo 
at my door by a certain hour, immediately after breakfast. I 
then despatched a note to Kingsley, saying briefly that Edger- 
ton and myself would call for him at nine. I then returned 
home. My wife had arisen, but had not left the chamber. She 
pleaded headache and indisposition, and declined coming out to 
breakfast. She seemed very sad and unhappy, not to say 
greatly disquieted — appearances which I naturally attributed 
to guilt. For — still she said nothing. I lingered near her on 
various small pretences in the hope to hear her speak. I even 
made several approaches which, I fancied, might tend to pro- 
voke the wished-for revelation. Indeed, it was wished for as 
ardently as ever soul wished for the permission to live — prayed 
for as sinceiely as the dying man prays for respite, and the tem- 
porary remission of his doom. 

In vain ! My wife said little, and nothing to the purpose. 
The moments became seriously short. Could she have anything 
to say? Was it possible that, being innocent, she should still 
lock up the guilty secret in her bosom ? She could not be in- 
nocent to do so ! This conclusion seemed inevitable. In order 
that she should have no plea of discouragement, I spoke to her 
with great tenderness of manner, with a more than usual display 
of feeling. It was no mere show. I felt all that I said and 
looked. I knew that a trying and terrible event was at hand 


85G CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND 'HEAIK\ 

— an event painful to us both — and all my love for her revived 
with tenfold earnestness. Oh ! how I longed to take her into 
my arms, and warn her tenderly of the consequences of her er- 
ror; but this, of course, was impossible. But, short of this, I 
did everything that I thought likely to induce her confidence. 
I talked familiarly to her, and fondly, with an effort at childlike 
simplicity and earnestness, in the hope that, by thus renewing 
the dearest relations of ease and happiness between us, she 
should be beguiled into her former trusting readiness of speech. 
She met my fondnesses with equal fondness. It seemed to give 
her particular pleasure that I should be thus fond. In her em- 
' brace, requiting mine, she clung to me ; and her tears dropping 
warm upon my hands, were yet attended by smiles of the most 
hearty delight. A thousand times she renewed the assurances 
of her love and attachment — nay, she even went so far as ten- 
derly to upbraid me that our moments of endearment were so 
few; — yet, in spite of all this, she still forbore the one only 
subject. She still said nothing; and as I knew how much 
she could say and ought to say, which she did not say, I could 
not resist the conviction that her tears were those of the croco- 
dile, and her assurances of love the glozing commonplaces of 
the harlot. 

In silence she suffered me to leave her for the breakfast-table. 
She looked, it is true — but what had I to do with looks, how- 
ever earnest and devoted? I went from her slowly. When 
on the stairs, fancying I had heard her voice, I returned, but 
she had not called me. She was still silent. Full of sadness I 
left her, counting slowly and sadly every step which I took 
from her presence. 

Edgerton was already at table. He looked very wretched 
I observed him closely. His eye shrunk from the encounter of 
mine. His looks answered sufficiently for his guilt. I said to 
him : — 

“ I have to ride out a little ways in the country this morning, 
and count upon your company. I trust you feel well enough to 
go with me % Indeed, it will do you good.” 

Of course, my language and manner were stripped of every- 
thing that might alarm his fears. He hesitated, but complied. 
The carriage was at the vloor before we had finished breakfast; 


THE FATAL SILENCE. 


357 


and with no other object than simply to afford her another op- 
portunity for the desired revelation, I once more went up to my 
wife’s chamber. Here I lingered fully ten minutes, affecting to 
search for a paper in trunks where T knew it could not be found. 
While thus engaged I spoke to her frequently and fondly. She 
did not need the impulse to make her revelation, except in her own 
heart. The occasion was unemployed. She suffered me once 
more to depart in silence ; and this time I felt as if the word of 
utter and inevitable wo had been spoken. The hour had gone 
by for ever. I could no longer resist the conviction of her 
shameless guilt. All her sighs and tears, professions of love and 
devotion, the fond tenacity of her embrace, the deep-seated 
earnestness and significance in her looks — all went for nothing 
in her failure to utter the one only, and all-important communi- 
cation. 

Let no woman, on any pretext, however specious, deceive 
herself with the fatal error, that she can safely harbor, unspoken 
to her husband, the secret of any insult, or base approach, of 
another to herself! 


m 


CONFESSION. OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

TOO LATE ! 

Edgerton announced himself to be in readiness, and, at the 
same time, declared his intention to withdraw at once from 
our hospitality and return to his old lodging-house. He had 
already given instructions to his servant for the removal of 
his things. 

“What!” I said with a feeling of irony, which did not 
make itself apparent in my speech — “you are tired of our 
hospitality, Edgerton ? We have not treated you well, I am 
afraid.” 

“ Yes,” he muttered faintly, “ too well. I have every reason 
to be gratified and grateful. No reason to complain.” 

He forced himself to say something more by way of ac- 
knowledgment ; but to this I gave little heed. We drove first 
to Kingsley’s, and took him up ; then, to my office, where I got 
out, and, entering the office, wrapped up my pistol-case care- 
fully in a newspaper, so that the contents might not be conjec- 
tured, and bringing it forth, thrust it into the boot of the car- 
riage. 

“ What have you got there ?” demanded Kingsley. 

“Something for digestion,” was my reply. “We may be 
kept late.” 

“ You are wise enough to be a traveller,” said Kingsley ; and 
without further words we drove on. I fancied that when I put 
the case into the vehicle, Edgerton looked somewhat suspicious. 
That he was uneasy was evident enough. He could not well 
be otherwise. The consciousness of guilt was enough to make 


TOO LATt: ! 359 

him so ; and then there was but little present sympathy between 
himself and Kingsley. 

I had already given the driver instructions. He carried us 

into the loneliest spot of woods some four miles from M , and 

in a direction very far from the beaten track. 

“ What brings you into this quarter ?” demanded Kingsley. 
“ What business have you here ?” 

“We stop here,” I said as the carriage drove up. “I haA'e 
some land to choose and measure here. Shall we alight, 
gentlemen 

I took the pistol-case in my hands and led the way. They 
followed me. The carriage remained. We went on together 
several hundred yards until I fancied we should be quite safe 
from interruption. We were in a dense forest. At a little dis- 
tance was a small stretch of tolerably open pine land, which 
seemed to answer the usual purposes. Here I paused and con- 
fronted them. 

“ Mr. Kingsley,” I said without further preliminaries, “ I have 
taken the liberty of bringing you here, as the most honorable 
man I know, in order that you should witness the adjustment 
of an alfair of honor between Mr. Edgerton and myself.” 

As I spoke I unrolled the pistol-case. Edgerton grew pale 
as death, but remained silent. Kingsley was evidently aston- 
ished, but not so much so as to forbear the obvious answer. 

“How! an affair of honor? Is this inevitable — necessary, 
Clifford ?” 

“ Absolutely !” 

“ In no way to be adju.sted ?” 

“ In but one ! This man has dishonored me in the dearest 
relations of my household.” 

“ Ha ! can it be ?” 

“ Too true ! There is no help for it now. I am dealing with 
him still as a man of honor. I should have been justif ed in 
shooting him down like a dog — as one shoots down the reptile 
that crawls to the cradle of his children. I give him an efiiird 
chance for life.” 

“ It is only what I feared !” said Kingsley, looking at Eiiger- 
ton as he spoke. 

The latter had staggered back against a tree. Big dio| s v-f 


360 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sweat stood upon bis brows. Ilis bead bung down. Still bo 
was silent. I gave tbe weapons to Kingsley, wbo proceeded to 
cbarge tbem. 

“1 will not figbt you, ClifFord!” exclaimed tbe criminal with 
busky accents. 

“You must!” 

“I can not — I dare not — I will not I You may sboot mo 
down wbcro I stand. I bave wronged you. I dare noi lift 
weapon at your breast.” 

“ Wretcb ! say not tins !” I answered. “ You must make tbe 
atonement.” 

“ Be it so ! Sboot me 1 You are right ! I am ready to die.” 

“ No, William Edgerton, no 1 You must not refuse me tbe 
only atonement you can make. You must not couple that atone- 
ment with a sting. Hear me 1 Yqu bave violated tbe rites of 
hospitality, the laws of honor and of manbood, and grossly 
abused all tbe obligations of friendship. These offences would 
amply justify me in taking your life without scruple, and with- 
out exposing my own to any hazard. But my soul revolts at 
this. I remember tbe past — our boyhood together — and tbe 
parental kindness of your venerated parent. These deprive 
me of a portion of that bitterness wbicb would otherwise bave 
moved me to destroy you. Take tbe pistol. Tf life is nothing 
to you, it is as little to me now. Use tbe privilege wbicb I give 
you, and I shall be satisfied with tbe event.” 

He shook bis bead while be repeated : — 

“ No ! I can not. Say no more, Clifford. I^deserve death I” 

I clapped tbe pistol to bis bead. He folded bis arms, lifted 
bis eyes, and regarded me more steadily than be bad done for 
months before. Kingsley struck up my arm, as I was cocking 
the weapon. 

“ He must die I” I exclaimed fiercely. 

“ Yes, that is certain !” replied tbe other. “ But I am not 
willing that I should be brought here as tbe witness to a mur- 
der. If he will figbt you, I will see you through. If be will 
not figbt you, there needs no witness to your shooting him. 
You bave no right, Clifford, to require this of me.” 

“ You are not a coward, William Edgerton ?” 

“Coward!” be exclaimed, and bis fotm rose to its fullest 


TOO LATE ! 8G1 

height, and his eye flashed out the fires of a manhood, which 
of late he had not often shown. 

“ Coward ! No ! Do I not tell you shoot 1 I do not fear 
death. Nay, let me say to you, Clifford, I long for it. Life 
has been a long torture to me — is still a torture. It can not 
now be otherwise. Take it — you will see me smile in the 
death agony.” 

“ Hear me William Edgerton, and submit to my will. You 
know not half your wrong. You drove me from my home — 
my birthplace. When I was about to sacrifice you for your 

previous invasion of my peace in C , I looked on your old 

father, T heard the story of his disappointment — his sorrows — 
and you were the cause. I determined to spare you — to banish 
myself rather, in order to avoid the necessity of taking your 
life. You were not satisfied with having wrought this result. 
You have pursued me to the woods, where my cottage once 
more began to blossom with the fruits of peace and love. You 
trample upon its peace — you renew your indignities and per- 
fidies here. You drive me to desperation and fill my habitation 
with disgrace. Will you deny me then what I ask ? Will 
you refuse me the atonement — any atonement — which I may 
demand ?” 

“No, Clifford !” he replied, after a pause in which he seemed 
subdued with shame and remorse. “ You shall have it as you 
wish. I will fight you. I am all that you declare. I am 
guilty of the wrong you urge against me. I knew not, till 

now, that I had been the cause of your flight from 0 . Had 

I known that !” 

Kingsley offered him the pistol. 

“ No !” he said, putting it aside. “ Not now ! I will give you 
this atonement this afternoon. At this moment I can not. T 
must write. I must make another atonement. Your claim for 
justice, Clifford, must not preclude my settlement of the claims 
of others.” 

“ Mine must have preference !” 

“ It shall ! The atonement which I propose to make shall 
be one of repentance. You would not deny me the melancholy 
privilege of saying a few last words to my wretched parents ?” 

“ No ! no ! no !” 


16 


362 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ T thank you, Clifford. Come for me at four to my lodgings 
— bring Mr. Kingsley with you. You will find me ready tc 
atone, and to save you every unnecessary pang in doing so.” 

This ended our conference. Kingsley rode home with him, 
while, throwing myself upon the ground, I surrendered myself 
to such meditations as were natural to the moods which govern- 
ed me. They were dark and dismal enough. Edgerton had 
avowed his guilt. Could there be any doubt on the subject of 
my wife’s? He had made no sort of qualification in his avow- 
al of guilt, which might acquit her. He had evidently made 
his confession with the belief that I was already in possession 
of the whole truth. One hope alone remained — that my wife’s 
voluntary declaration would still be forthcoming. To that I 
clung as the drowning man to his last plank. When Kingsley 
and Edgerton first left me, I had resolved to waste the hours 
in the woods and not to return home until after my final meet- 
ing in the afternoon with the latter. It might be that I should 
not return home then, and in such an event I was not unwdlling 
that my wife should still live, the miserable thing which she had 
made' herself But, with the still fond hope that she might 
speak, and speak in season, I now resolved to return at the 
usual dinner hour ; and, timing myself accordingly, I prolonged 
my wanderings through the woods until noon. I then set 
forward, and reached the cottage a little sooner than I had ex- 
pected. 

.1 found Julia in bed. She complained of headache and fever. 
She had already taken medicine — I sat beside her. I spoke 
to her in the tenderest language. I felt, at the moment when I 
feared to lose her for ever, that I could love nothing half so well. 
I spoke to her with as much freedom as fondness ; and, moment- 
ly expecting her to make the necessary revelation, I hung upon 
her slightest words, and hung upon them only to be disappointed. 

The dinner hour came. The meal was finished. I returned 
to th^ chamber, and once more resumed my place beside her on 
the couch. I strove to inspire her with confidence — to awaken 
her sensibilities — to beguile her to the desired utterance, bu* 
in vain. Of course I could give no hint whatsoever of the 
knowledge which I had obtained. After that, her confession 


TOO LATE! 


363 


would have been no longer voluntary, and could no longer have 
been credited. 

Time sped — too rapidly as I thought. Though anxious for 
vengeance, I loved her too fondly not to desire to delay the 
minutes in the earnest expectation that she would speak at 
last. She did not. The hour approached of my meeting with 
Edgerton ; and then I felt that Edgerton was not the only 
criminal. 

Mrs. Porterfield just then brought in some warm tea, and 
placed it on the table at the bed head. After a few moments’ 
delay, she left us alone together. The eyes of my wife were 
averted. The vial of prussic acid stood on the same table with 
the tea. I rose from the couch, interposed my person between 
it and the table — and, taking up the poison, deliberately pour- 
ed three drops into the beverage. I never did anything more 
firmly. Yet I was not the less miserable, because I was most 
firm. My nerve was that of the executioner who carries out a 
just judgment. This done, I put the vial into my pocket. 
Julia then spoke to me. I turned to her with eagerness. I was 
prepared to cast the vessel of tea from the window. It was 
my hope that she was about to speak, though late, the neces- 
sary truths. But she only called to me to know if I had been 
to my office during the morning. 

“ Not since nine o’clock,” was my answer. “ Why ?” 

“Nothing. But are you going to your office now, dear 
husband 1” 

“ Not directly. I shall possibly be there in the course of the 
afternoon. What do you wish ? Why do you ask ?” 

“ Oh, nothing,” she replied ; “ but I will tell you to-monow 
why I ask.” 

“To-morrow! — tell me now, if it be anything of moment. 
Now 1 now is the appointed time 1” The serious language of 
Scripture became natural to me in the agonizing situation in 
which I stood. 

“ No ! no ! to-morrow will do. I will not gratify your curi- 
osity. You are too curious, husband ;” and she turned from 
me, smiling, upon the couch. 

I felt that what she might tell me to-morrow could have 
I^othin^ to do with the affair between herseff an'! Ed^-ertop. 


8G4 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


That could be no object for jest and merriment. I turned 
from her slowly, with a feeling at my heart which was nat ex- 
actly madness — for I knew then what I was doing — but it was 
just the feeling to make me doubtful how long I should be se* 
cure from madness. 

“ To-morrow will not do,” I muttered to myself as I descend- 
ed the stairs. “ Too late ! — too late I” 


\ 




SUICIDE. 


365 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

SUICIDE. 

From the cottage I proceeded to Kingsley’s. He was in 
readiness, and waiting me. We drove directly to Edgerton’s 
lodging-house, the appointed hour of four being at hand. 
Kingsley only alighted from the carriage, and entered the 
dwelling; He was absent several minutes. When he returned, 
he returned alone. 

“ Edgerton is either asleep or has gone out. His room-door 
is locked. The landlord called and knocked, but received no 
answer. He lacks manliness, and I suspect has fled. The 
steamboat went at two.” 

“Impossible!” I exclaimed, leaping from the carriage. “I 
know Edgerton better. I can not think he would fly, after the 
solemn pledge he gave me.” 

“ You have only thought too well of him always,” said the 
other, as we entered the house. 

“ Let us go to the room together,” I said to the landlord. “ I 
fear something wrong.” 

“ Well, so do T,” responded the publican. “ The poor gentle- 
man has been looking very badly, and sometimes gets into a 
strange wild taking, and then he goes along seeing nobody. 
Only last Saturday I said to my old woman, as how I thought 
everything warn’t altogether right Acre,” — and the licensed 
sinner touched his head with his fore-finger, himself looking 
the very picture of well-satisfied sagacity. We said nothing, 
but leaving the eloquence to him, followed him up to Edgerton’s 
chamber. I struck the door thrice with the butt end of my 
whip, then called his name, but without receiving any answer, 


;j06 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

Endeavoring to look tlirougL. the key-hole, I discovered the key 
on the inside, and within the lock. I then immediately conjec- 
tured the truth. William Edgerton had committed suicide. 

And so it was. We burst the door, and found him suspended 
by a silk handkerchief to a beam that traversed the apartment. 
He had raised himself upon a chair, which he had kicked over 
after the knot had been adjusted. Such a proceeding evinced 
the most determined resolution. 

We took him down with all despatch, but life had already 
been long extinct. He must have been hanging two hours 
His face was perfectly livid — his eyeballs dilated — his mouth 
distorted — but the neck remained unbroken. He had died by 
suffocation. I pass over the ordinary proceedings — the conster- 
nation, the clamor, the attendance of the grave-looking gen- 
tlemen with lancet and lotion. They did a great deal, of course, 
in doing nothing. Nothing could be done. Then followed 
the “ crowner’s’^ inquest. A paper, addressed to the landlord, 
was submitted to them, and formed the burden of their report. 

“ I die by my own hands,” said this document, “ that I may 
lose the sense of pain, bodily and mental. I die at peace with 
the world. It has never wronged me. I am the source of my 
own sorrows, as I am the cause of my own death. I will not 
say that I die sane. I am doubtful on that head. I am sure 
that I have been the victim of a sort of madness for a very 
long time. This has led me to do wrong, and to meditate wrong 
— has made me guilty of many things, which, in my better mo- 
ments of mind and body, I should have shrunk from in horror. 
I write this that nabody may be suspected of sharing in a deed 
the blame of which must rest on my head only.” 

Then followed certain apologies to the landlord for having 
made his house the scenp of an event so shocking. The same 
paper also conveyed'^ certain presents of personal stuff to the 
same person, with thanks for his courtesy and attention. An 
adequate sum of money, paying his bill, and the expenses of his 
funeral, was left in his purse, upon the paper. 

Kingsley assumed the final direction of these affairs ; and 
having seen everything in a fair way for the funeral, which was 
appointed to take place the next morning, he hurried me away 
to his lodging-house, 


CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 


:J67 


CHAPTER L. 

CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 

W H EN within his chamber, he carefully fastened the doer 
and placed a packet in my hands. 

“ This is addressed to you,” he said. “ I found it on the 
table with other papers, and seeing the address, and fearing 
that if the jury laid eyes on it, they might insist on knowing 
its contents, I thrust it into my pocket and said nothing about 
it there. Read it at your leisure, while I smoke a cigar below.” 

He left me, and I opened the seal with a sense of misgiving 
and apprehension for which I could not easily account. The 
outer packet was addressed to myself. But the envelope con- 
tained several other papers, one of which was addressed to his 
father; another — a small billet, unsealed — bore the name of 
my wife upon it.- 

‘ That,” I inly muttered, “ she shall never read !” 

An instant after, I trembled with a convulsive horror, as the 
demon who had whispered in my ears so long, seemed to say, 
in mocking accents : — 

“Shall not! Ha! ha! She can not! can not 1” and then 
the fiend seemed to chuckle, and I remembered the insnppiessi- 
de anguish of Othello’s apostrophe, to make all its eloonence 
my own. I murmured audibly : — 

“ My wife ! my wife ! What wife ? — I have no wife 1 
Oh, insupportable — oh, heavy hoar !” 

My eyes were blinded. My face sunk down upon the table, 
and a cold shiver shook my frame as if I had an ague. But I 
recovered myself when I remembered the wrongs I had endur- 
ed her guilt and the guilt of Edgerton. I clutched tke papers 

brushed the big drops from my forehead, and read as follows ‘ 


368 


CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 


“Clifford, I save you guiltless" of my death. You would be 
less happy were my blood upon your hands, for, though I de- 
serve to die by them, I know your nature too well to believe 
that you would enjoy any malignant satisfaction at the perform- 
. ance of so sad a duty. Still, I know that this is no atonement. 
I have simply ceased from persecuting you and the angelic 
woman, your wife. But how shall I atone for the tortures and 
annoyances of the past, inflicted upon you both ? Never ! 
never ! I perish without hope of forgiveness, though, here, alone 
with God, in the extreme of mortal humility, I pray for it ! 

“ Perhaps, you know all. From what escaped you this 
morning, it would seem so. You knew of my madness when in 

C ; you know that it pursued you here. Nothing then 

remains for me to tell. I might simply say all is true ; but that, 
in the confession of my guilt and folly, each particular act of 
sin demands its o^n avowal, as it must be followed by its own 
bitter agony and groan. 

“My passion for your wife began soon after your marriage. 
Until then I had never known her. You will acquit me of any 
deliberate design to win her affections. I strove, as well as I 
could, to suppress my own. But my education did not fit me 
for such a struggle. The indulgence of fond parents had grati- 
fied all my wishes, and taught me to expect their gratification. 

• I could not subdue my passions even when they were unac- 
companied by any hopes. Without knowing my own feelings, 
I approached your wife. Our tastes were similar, and these 
furnished the legitimate excuse for frequently bringing us to- 
gether. The friendly liberality of your disposition enlarged 
the privileges of the acquaintance, and, without meaning it at 
first, I abused them. I sought your dwelling at unsuitable 
periods. Unconsciously, I did so, just at those periods wdien 
you were most likely to be absent I first knew that my course 
was wrong, by discovering the unwillingness which I felt to en- 
counter 5mu. This taught me to know the true nature of my 
sentiments, but without enforcing the necessity of subduing 
them. I did not seek to subdue them long. I yielded ni3^self 
up, with the recklessness of insanity, to a passion whose very 
sweetness had the effect to madden. 

“ My fondness for your wife was increased by pity. You 


C01^FKSS^0^ OF KDGERTON 


369 


o^jgleoted ^er I was at first indignant and liated you accor- 
dingly. I3ut i b»',came glad of your neglect for two reasons 
It gave me tlie opportunities for seeing her which I desired ; 
and I felt persuaded with a vain folly, that nothing could be 
more natural than that she would make a comparison, favorable 
of course to myself, between my constant solicitude and atten- 
tion and your ungenerous abandonment. But I was mistaken. 
‘ri'iC steady virtue of the wife revenged the wrong which, with- 
out deliberately intending it, I practised against the husband. 
When my attentions became apparent, she received me with 
marked coolness and reserve ; and finally ceased to frequent the 
atelier^ which, while art alone was my object, yielded, I think, 
an equal and legitimate pleasure to us both. 

“ I saw and felt the change, but had not the courage to dis- 
, continue my persecutions. My passion, and the tenacity with 
which it enforced its claims, seemed to increase with every 
difficulty and denial. The strangeness of your habits facili- 
tated mine. Almost nightly I visited your house, and though I 
•ould not but see that the reserve of your wife now rose into 
•"omething like hauteur, yet my infatuation was so great that I 
hf-gan to fancy this appearance to be merely such a disguise as 
Trudence assumes in order to conceal its weaknesses, and dis 
courage the invader whom it can no longer baffle. With this 
impression I hurried on to the commission of an offence, the 
results of which, though they did not quell my desires, had the 
effect of terrifying them, for some time at least, into partial 
submission. Would to God, for all our sakes, that their sub- 
mission had been final ! 

“You remember the ball at Mrs. Delaney’s marriage? 1 
waltzed once with your wife that evening. She refused to 
v/altz a second time. The privileges of this intoxicating dance 
are such as could be afforded by no other practice in social com- 
munion — the lady still preseiwing the reputation of virtue. I 
need not say with what delight I employed these privileges. 
The pressure of her arm and waist maddened me ; and when 
the hour grew late, and you did not appear, Mrs. Delaney coun- 
selled me to tender my carriage for ihe purpose of conveying 
her home. 1 did so ; — it was refused ; but, through the urgent 
suggestions of ner mother, it was finally .vccepted. 1 assisted 

10 * 


370 CONFESSION, OE THE BLIND HEART. 

her tb the carriage, immediately followed, and took rhy place 
beside her. She was evidently annoyed, and drew herself up 
with a degree of lofty reserve, which, under other circumstances, 
and had I been less excited than I was, by the events of the 
evening, wmuld have discouraged my presumption. It did not. 
I proceeded to renew those liberties which I had taken during 
the dance. I passed my arm about her waist. She repulsed 
me with indignation, and insisted upon my setting her down 
where w^e were, in the unfrequented street, at midnight. This 
I refused. She threatened me with your anger; and when, still 
deceiving myself on the subject of her real feelings, I proceed- 
ed to other liberties, she dashed her hand through the windows 
of the coach, and cried aloud for succor. This alarmed me. I 
promised her forbearance, and finally set her down, very much 
agitated, at the entrance of your dwelling. She refused m}'^ 
assistance to the house, but fell to the ground before reaching 
it. That night her miscarriage ensued, and my passions for a 
season were awed into inactivity, if not silence. 

“ Still I could not account for her forbearance to reveal every- 
thing to you. You were still kind and affectionate to me as 
ever. I very well knew that had she disclosed the senret, you 
were not the man to submit to such an indignity as that of which 
I had been guilty. It seems — so I infer from what you said 
this morning— that you knew it all. If you did, your forbear- 
ance was equally unexpected and merciful. Believing that she 
had kept my secret, my next conclusion was inevitable, ‘ She is 
not altogether insensible to the passion she inspires. Her 
strength is in her virtues alone. Her sympathies are clearly 
mine !’ These conclusions emboldened me. I haunted your 
house nightly wdth music. Sheltered beneath your trees, I 
poured forth the most plaintive strains which I could extort 
from my fiute. Passion increased the effect of art. I strove 
at no regular tunes; I played as the mood prompted; and felt 
myself, not unfrequently, weeping over my own strange irreg- 
ular melodies. 

“ Your sudden determination to remove prevented the renew- 
al of my persecutions, I need not say how miserable I was 
made, and how much I was confounded by such a determination. 
Explained by yourself this morning, it is now easily understood; 


CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 


37 1 

but, ignorant then of the discoveries you had made • — ignorant 
of your merciful forbearance toward my unhappy parents — for 
I can regard your forbearance with respect to myself as arising 
only from your consideration of them — it was unaccountable 
that you should give up the prospect of fortune and honors, 
which success, in every department of your business, seemed 
certainly to secure you. 

“ The last night — the eve of your departure from C , I 

resumed my place among the trees before your dwelling. Here 
I played and wandered with an eye ever fixed upon your win- 
dows. While I gazed, I caught the glimpse of a figure that 
buried itself hurriedly behind the folds of a curtain. I could 
suppose it to be one person only. I never thought of you. 
Urged by a feeling of desperation, which took little heed of con- 
sequences, I clambered up into the branches of a pride of India, 
which brought me within twenty feet of the window. I dis- 
tinctly beheld the curtain rufiled by the sudden motion of some 
one behind it. I was about to speak — to say — no matter what. 
The act would have been madness, and such, doubtless, would 
have been the language. I fortunately did not speak. A few 
moments only had elapsed after this, when I heard a few brief 
words, spoken in her voice, from the same window. The words 
were few, and spoken in tones which denoted the great agitation 
of the speaker. These apprized me of my danger. 

“ ‘ Fly, madman, for your life ! My husband is on the stairs.* 

“ Her person was apparent. Her words could not be mistaken 
though spoken in faint, feeble accents. At the same moment I 
heard the lower door of the dwelling unclose, and without 
knowing what I did or designed, I dropped from the tree to the 
ground. To my great relief, you did not perceive me. I was 
fortunately close tp the fence, and in the deepest shadow of the 
tree. You hurried by, within five steps of me, and jumped the 
fence, evidently thinking to find me in the next enclosure. 
Breathing freely and thankfully after this escape, I fled im- 
mediately to the little boat in which I usually made my ap- 
proaches to your habitation on such occasions ; and was in the 
middle of the lake, and out ' { sight, long before you had given 
over your fruitless pursuit. The next day you left the city 
and I remained, the wasted and wasting monument of pas 


R72 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

sions wliich had been as profitlessly as they were criminally 
exercised. 

“ You were gone ; — you had borne with you the object of my 
devotion ; but the passion remained and burnt with no less 
frenzy than before. You were not blind to the effect of this 
frenzy upon my health and constitution. You saw that I was 
consuming with a nameless disease. Perhaps you knew the 
cause and the name, and your departure may have been prompt- 
ed by a sentiment of pity for myself, in addition to that which 
you felt for my unhappy parents. If this be so — and it seems 
probable — it adds something to the agony of life— it will as- 
sist me in the work of atonement — it will better reconcile me 
to the momentary struggle of death. 

“ My ill health increased with the absence of the only object 
for whom health was now desirable. To see her again — to the 
last — for I now knew that that last could not be very remote 
— was the great desire of my mind. Besides, strange to say, a 
latent hope was continually rising and trembling in my soul. 
I still fancied that I had a place in the affections of your wife. 
You will naturally ask on what this hope was founded. I 
answer, on the supposition that she had concealed from you the 
truth on the subject of my presumptuous assault upon her ; and 
on those words of warning by which she had counselled me to 
fly from your pursuit on that last night before you left the city. 
These may not be very good reasons for such a hope, but the 
faith of the devotee needs but slight supply of aliment ; and the 
fanaticism of a flame like mine needs even less. A whisper, a 
look, a smile — nay, even a frown — has many a time prompted 
stronger convictions than this, in wiser heads, and firmer hearts 
than mine. 

“ My father counselled me to travel, and I was only too glad 
to obey his suggestions. He prescribed the route, but I deceived 
him. Once on the road, I knew but one route that could do me 
good, or at least afford me pleasure. I pursued the object of 
my long devotion. Here your conduct again led me astray. 1 
found you still neglectful of your wife. Still, you received me 
as if I had been a brother, and thus convinced me that Julia 
had kept my secret. In keeping it thus long I now fancied it 
had become hers. I renewed my devotions, but with as little 


CONFESSION OP EDGERTON. 


373 


profit as before. She maintained the most rigid distance, and I 
grew nervous and feeble in consequence of the protracted 
homage which I paid, and the excitement which followed from 
this homage. You had a proof of this nervousness and excite- 
ment in the incident which occurred while crossing the stream 
let. I extended her my hand to assist her over, and scarcely 
had her fingers touched mine, when I felt a convulsion, and 
sunk, fainting and hopelessly into the stream.* Conscious of 
nothing besides, I was yet conscious of her screams. This 
tender interest in my fate increased my madness. It led to a 
subsequent exhibition of it which at length fully opened my 
eyes to the enormity of my offence. 

“ You blindly as I then thought, took me to your dwelling as 
if I had been a brother. Ah ! why ? If I was mad, Clifford, 
your madness was not less than mine. It was the blindest 
madness if not the worst. The progress of my insanity was 
now more rapid than ever, I fancied that I perceived signs of 
something more than coldness between yourself and wife. I 
fancied that you frowned upon her ; and in the grave, sad, 
speaking looks which she addressed to you, I thought I read 
the language of dislike and defiance. My own attentions to 
her were redoubled whenever an opportunity was afforded me ; 
but this was not often. I saw as little of her while living in 
your cottage as I had seen before, and, but for the good old lady, 
Mrs. Porterfield, I should probably have been even less blessed 
bv her presence. She perceived my dullness, and feeble health, 
and dreaming no ill, insisted that *your wife should assist in be- 
guiling me of my weariness. She set us down frequently at 
chess, and loved to look on and watch the progress of the game. 

“ She did not always watch, and last night, while we played 
together, in a paroxysm of madness, I proceeded to those liber- 
ties which I suppose provoked her to make the revelation which 
she had so long forborne. My impious hands put aside the 
board, my arms encircled her waist ; while, kneeling beside her, 
I endeavored to drag her into my embrace. She repulsed me ; 
smote me to her feet with her open palm ; and spurning me 

* An incident somewhat similar to this occurs in the Life of Petrarch, as 
given by Mrs. Dobson, but the precise facts are not remembered, and I have 
pot the volume by me. 


374 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


where I lay grovelling, retired to her chamber. I know not what 
I said — I know not what she answered — yet the tones of her 
voice, sharp with horror and indignation, are even now ringing 
in my ears ! 

“Clifford, I have finished this painful narration. I have cursed 
your home with bitterness, yet I pray you not to curse me ! Let 
me implore you to ask for merciful forbearance from her, to 
whom I feel I have been such a sore annoyance — too happy if I 
have not been also a curse to her. What I have written is the 
truth — sadly felt — solemly spoken — God alone being present 
while I write, while death lingers upon the threshold impatient 
till I shall end. I leave a brief sentence, which you may or 
may not, deliver to your wife. You will send the letter to my 
father. You will see me buried in some holy inclosure ; and if 
you can, you will bury with my unconscious form, the long 
strifes of feeling which I have made you endure, and the just 
anger which I have awakened in your bosom. Farewell! — and 
may the presiding spirit of your home hereafter, be peace and 
love!” 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS. 


375 


CHAPTER LI. 

DOUBTS SUMMONS. 

^ The billet which was addressed to my wife was in the following 
language ; — 

“Lady, on the verge of the grave, having sincerely repented of 
the otfense I have given you, 1 implore you to pity and to pardon. 
A sense of guilt and shame weighs me down' to earth. You 
can not apply a harsher judgment to my conduct than I feel 
it deserves ; but I am crushed already. You will not trample the 
prostrate. In a few hours my body will be buried in the dust*. 
My soul is already there. But, though writhing, I do not curse ; and 
still loving, I yet repent. In my last moments I implore you to for- 
give ! forgive ! forgive ! ” 

This was all, and I considered the two documents with keen 
and conflicting feelings. There was an earnestness — a sincer- 
ity about them, which I could not altogether discredit. He had 
freely avowed his own errors ; but he had not spoken for hers. 
I did not dare to admit the • impression which he evidently 
wished to convey of her entire innocence, not only from the 
practices, but the very thoughts of guilt. It is in compliance 
with a point of honor that the professed libertine yet endeavors 
to' excuse and save the partner of his w^antonness. In this light 
I regarded all those parts of his narrative which went to exten- 
uate her conduct. There was one part of her conduct, indeed, 
wiiicli, as it exceeded his ability to account for^ was beyond his 
ability to excuse — namely, her strange concealment of his in- 
solence. This was the grand fault wiiicli, it appeared to me, w'as 
conclusive of all the rest. It was now my policy to believe in this 
fault wholly. If I did not, wdiere w\as I ? what was my condition ? 
— my misery ? 

I sat brooding, with these documents open before me on the 
table, when Kingsley tapped at the door. I bade him enter, 


•;T(3 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

-a put the papers in his hands. He read them in silence, laid 
them down without a word, and looked me with a grave com- 
posure in the face. 

What do you think of it ?” I demanded. 

“ That he speaks the truth,” he replied. 

“Yes, no doubt — so far as he himself is concerned.” 

“ I should think it all true.” 

“ Indeed ! I think not.” 

“ Why do you doubt, and what ?” 

“ I doubt those portiona in which he insists upon my wife’s 
integrity.” 

“ Wherefore ?” 

“ There are many reasons ; the principal of which is her sin- 
gular concealment of the truth. She suffers a strange man to 
offend her virtue with the most atrocious familiarities, and says 
nothing to her husband, who, alone, could have redressed the 
wrong and remedied the impertinence.” 

“ That certainly is a staggering fact.” 

“ According to his own admission, she warns him to fly from 
the wrath of her husband, to which his audacity had exposed 
him — warns him, in her night-dress, and from the window of 
her chamber.” 

“ True, true ! I had forgotten that.” 

“Look at all the circumstances. He haunts the house — ac- 
cording to his own showing, persecutes her with attentions, 
which are so marked, that, when he finds her husband ignorant 
of them, leads him to the conclusion — which is natural — that 
they are not displeasing to the wife. He avails himself of the 
privileges of the waltz, at the marriage of Mrs. Delaney, to 
gratify his lustful anticipations. He presses her arm and waist 

with his d d fingers. Rides home with her, and, according 

to his story, takes other«4iberties, which she baffles and sets 
aside. But, mark the truth. Though she requires him to set 
her down in the street — though she makes terms for his for- 
bearance — a wife making terms with a libertine — yet he evi- 
dently sees her into the house, and when she is taken sick, hur- 
ries for the mother and the physician. He tells just enough of 
the story to convict himself, but suppresses everything which 
may convict her. How know I that this resistance in the car* 


DOUBTS — SUMMOl'fS. 


STT 

riage was more than a sham ? How know I that he did no»t 
attend her in the house? That they did not dabble together 
on their way through the dark piazza — along the stairs?- 
Nay, what proof is there that he did not find his way, with pol- 
luting purpose, into the very chamber? — that chamber, from 
which, not three weeks after, she hade him fly to avoid mj 
wrath! What makes her so precious of his life — the life of 
one who pursues her with lust and dishonor — if she does n l 
burn with like passions ? But there is more.” 

Here I told him of the letter of Mrs. Delaney, in which that 
permanent beldame counsels her daughter, less against the pas- 
sion itself, than against the imprudent exhibition of it. It was 
clear that the mother had seen what had escaped my eyes. It was 
clear that the mother was convinced of the attachment of the 
daughter for this man. Now, the attachment being shown, what 
followed from the concealment of the indignities to which Ed- 
gerton had subjected her, but that she was pleased with them, 
and did not feel them to be such. These indignities are perse- 
vered in — are frequently repeated. Our footsteps are followed 
from one country to another. The husband’s hours of absence 
are noted. His departure is the invariable signal for them to 
meet. They meet. His hands paddle with hers; his arms 
grasp her waist. True, we are told by him, that she resists ; 
but it is natural that he should make this declaration. Its truth 
is combated by the fact that, of these insults, she says nothing. 
That fact is everything. That one fact involves all the rest. 
The woman who conceals such a history, shares in its guilt. 

Kingsley assented to these conclusions. 

“ Yet,” he said, “ there is an air of truthfulness about these 
papers — this narrative — that I should be pleased to believe, 
even if I could not ; — that I should believe for your sake, Clif- 
ford, if for no other reason. Honestly, after all you have said 
and shown — with all the unexplained and perhaps unexplaina- 
ble particulars before me, making the appearances so much 
against her — I can not think your wife guilty. I should be 
sorry to think so.” 

“ I should now be sorry to think otherwise,” I said ^iuskily. 
I thought of that poisonous draught. I thought with many mis- 
givings, and trembled where I sat. 


^^78 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


'* You surprise mo to hear you speak so. Surely, Oliffordj 
Vou love your wife ?” 

“Lovelier!” I exclaimed j I could say no more. My sobi 
choked my utterance. 

“ Nay, do not g,ive up,” he said tenderly. “ Be a man. All 
will go well yet. The facts are anything but conclusive. These 
papers have a realness about them, which have their weight 
against any suspicions, however strong. Remember, these are 
the declarations of a dying man ! Surely, all minor considera- 
tions of policy would give way at such a moment to the all-im 
portant necessity of speaking the truth. Besides, there is one 
consideration alone, to which we have made no reference, which 
yet seems to me full of weight and value. Edgerton could 
scarcely have been successful in his designs upon your wife. 
He was in fact dying of the disappointment of his passions. 
They could not have been gratified. Success takes an exulting 
aspect. He was always miserable and wo-begone — always de- 
sponding, sad, unhappy, from the first moment when this pas- 
sion began, to the last.” 

“ Guilt, guilt, nothing but guilt !” 

“ No, Clifford, no 1 — The guilt that works so terribly upon 
conscience as to produce such effects upon the frame, inevitably 
leads to repentance. Now, we find that Edgerton pursued his 
object until he was detected.” 

I shook my head. 

“ Do not steel yourself against probabilities, my dear fellow,” 
said Kingsley. 

“ Proofs against probabilities always !” 

“ No ! none of these are proofs except the papers you have 
in your hands, and the imperfect events which you witnessed. 
I am so much an admirer of your wife myself, that I am ready 
to believe this statement against the rest ; and to believe that, 
however strange may have been her conduct in some respects, 
it will yet be explained in a manner which shall acquit her of 
misconduct. Believe me, Clifford, think with me ” 

‘‘ No 1 no 1 I can not — dare not ! She is a—” 

“ Do not I Do not 1 No harsh words, even were it so ! She 
has been your wife. She should still be sacred in your eyes, 
as one who has slept Upon yolif bosom.” 


iDOUBTS— SUMMONS. 


“ A traitress all the while, dreaming of the embraces of an- 
other.*’ 

“ Cliiford, what can this mean? You are singularly invet- 
erate.” 

“Should I not be so? Am I not lost — abandoned — wrecked on 
the high seas of my hope — my fortunes scattered to the winds — my 
wealth, the jewel which I prized beyond all beside, which was worth 
the whole, gone down, swallowed up, and the black abyss closed 
over it forever?” 

“ We are not sure of this.” 

“ lam!” 

“No! no!” 

“lam! Though she be innocent, who shall rid me of the doubt, 
the fear, the ineradicable suspicion! That blackens all my sunlight; 
that poisons all my peace. I can never know delight. Nay, though 
you proved her innocent, it is now too late. Kingsley, by this time 
I have no wife ! ” 

“Ha! Surely, Clifford, you have not ” 

“Hark! SomS one knocks! Again! — again,! — I understand it, 
I know what it means. They are looking for me. She is dead or 
dying. I tell you it is quite in vain that you should argue.* Above 
all, do not seek to prove her innocent.” 

The knocking without increased. He seized my arm as I was 
going forward, and prevented me. 

“Compose yourself,” he said, thrusting me into a chair. “Re- 
main here till I return. I will see what is wanted.” 

But I followed him, and reached the door almost as soon as him- 
self. It was as I expected. I had been sent for. My wife was 
dangerously ill. Such Tvas the tenor of the message. More I could 
not learn. The servant had been an hour in search of me. Had 
sought me at the office and in other places which I had been accus- 
tomed to frequent; and I felt that after so long a delay, there was no 
longer need for haste. Still, I was about fo depart with hasty foot- 
steps. The servant was already dismissed. Kingsley grasped my 
arm. 

“ I will go along with you.” he said; and as we went, he spokil, in 
low accents, to the following effect: — 

“I know not what you have done, Clifford; and there is no 
need that I should know. Keep your secret. I do not think 


380 


CONFESSION, Oi THE BLIND HEART. 

the worse of you that you have been maddened to crime. Let 
the same desperation nerve you now to sufficient composure. 
Beware of what you say, lest these people suspect you.” 

“ And what if they do 1 Think you, Kingsley, that I fear ? 
No ! no ! Life has nothing now. I lost fear, and hope, and 
everything in her.” 

“ But may she not live V* 

“No, I think not; the poison is most deadly. Though, even 
if she lives, my loss would not be less. She ceased to live fcr 
me the moment that she began to live for another !” 






DEATH.- 


381 



CHAPTER LII. - 

DEATH. 

Nothing more was said until we reached the cottage. Mrs. Por- 
terfield and the physician met us at the entrance. We had come too 
late! 

She was dead. They had found her so when they despatched the 
servant in quest of me; but they were not certain of the fact, and the 
servant was instructed to say she was only very ill. The physician 
was called in as soon as possible; but had declared himself, as soon as 
he came, unable to do anything for her. He had bled her; 
and, before our arrival, had already pronounced upon her disease. 
It was apoplexy! 

“Apoplexy!” I exclaimed, involuntarily. Kingsley gave me a 
look. 

“Yes, sir, apoplexy,” continued the learned gentleman. “She 
must have had several fits. It is evident that she was conscious after 
the first, for she appears to have endeavored to reach the door. She 
was found at the entrance, lying upon the floor. When I saw her, 
she must have been lifeless a good hour.” * • 

He added sundry reasons, derived from her appearance, which 
he assured us were conclusive on this subject; but to these I 
gave little heed. I did not stop to listen. I hurried to the 
chamber, closed the door, and was alone with my victim, with 
my wife ! * 

My victim!— my wife! 

* The reader will be reminded of the melancholy details in the case of 
Miss Landon— L. E. L.--whose fate is still a mystery. 


382 CONFESSION, OE THE BLIND HEAET. 

I stood above ber inanimate form. How lovely in death — 
but, oh ! how cold ! I looked upon her pale, transparent cheeks 
and forehead, through which the blue lines of veins, that were 
pulseless now, gleamed out, showing the former avenues of the 
sweet and blessed life. I was disarmed of my anger while I 
gazed. I bent down beside her, took the rigid fingers of her 
hand in mine, and pressed [my lips upon the bloodless but still 
beautiful forms of hers. 

I remembered her youth and her beauty — the glowing prom- 
ise of her mind, and the gentle temper of her heart. I remem- 
bered the dear hours of our first communion — how pure were 
our delights — how perfect my felicity. How we moved to- 
gether as with one being only — beside the broad streams of our 
birthplace — under the shelter of shady pines — morning, and noon, 
and in the star-lighted night — never once dreaming that an hour 
like this would come! 

And she seemed so perfect pure, as she was so perfect lovely! 
Never did I hear from her lips sentiment that was not — not 
only virtuous, but delicate and soft — not only innocent but true 
— not only true but fond! Alas! so to fall — so too yield her- 
self at last! To feel the growth of rank passions — to surren- 
der her pure soul and perfect form to the base uses of lust— to 
be no better than the silly harlot, that, beguiled by her eager 
vanity, surrenders the precious jewel in her trust, to the first 
cunning sharper that assails her with a smiling lie! 

Oh God! how these convictions shook my frame! I had no 
longer strength for thought or action. I was feebler than the 
child, who, lost in the woods, struggles and sinks at last, through 
sheer exhaustion, into sobbing slumber at the foot of the unfeel- 
ing tree. I did not sob. I had . no tears. But at intervals, 
the powers of breathing becoming choked, and my struggles for 
relief were expressed in a groan which I vainly endeavored to 
keep down. The sense of desolation was upon me much more 
strongly than that of either crime or death. I did not so much 
feel that she was guilty, as that I w^ alone! That, henceforth, 
I must for ever be alone. This was the terrible conviction; — 
and oh! how lone! To lessen its pangs, I strove to recall the 
fault for which she perished— to renew the recollection of those 
thousand small events, which, thrown together, had seemed to 


DEATH 


383 


me mountains of rank and reeking evidence against her. But 
even my memory failed me in this effort. All this was a blank. 
The few imperfect and shadowy facts whch I could recall seem^ 
ed to me wholly unimportant in establishing the truth of what 
I sought to believe; and I shuddered with the horrible doubt 
that she might be innocent ! If she were indeed innocent, 
what am I ? 

With the desperate earnestness of the cast-aw^ay, who strives, 
ill n\id-ocean, for the only plank which can possibly retard his 
doom, did I toil to re-establish in my mind that conviction of her 
guilt which the demon in my soul had made so certain by his 
assurances before. Alas ! I had not only lost the wife of my 
bosom, but its fiend also. Vainly now did I seek to summon 
him back. Vainly did I call upon him to renew his arguments 
and proofs ! He had fled — fled for ever ; - and I could fancy 
that I heard him afar off, chuckling with hellish laughter, over 
the triumphant results of his malice. 

I know not how long I hung over that silent speaker. Her 
pale, placid countenance — her bloodless lips, that still seemed 
to smile upon me as they had ever done before ; -r- and that 
eye of speaking beauty — only half closed — oh ! what conclu- 
sive assurances did they seem to give of that innocence which 
it now seemed the worst impiety to doubt ! I would have given 
w^orlds — alas ! how impotent is such a speech ! Death sets his seal 
upon hope, and love, and endeavor ; and the regrets of that child- 
ish precipitation which has obeyed the laws of passion only, are 
only so many mocking memorials of the blind heart, that jaundiced 
the face of truth, and distorted all the aspects of the beautiful. 

Once more I laughed — a vain hysterical laugh — the ex- 
pression of my conviction that I was self-doomed and desperate ; 
and, w^rithing beside the inanimate angel whom I then would 
have recalled though with all her guilt — assuming all of it to 
have been true— to the arms that wantonly cast her off for ever 
— I grasped the cold senseless limbs in my embrace, and placed 
the drooping head once more upon the bosom where it could not 
long remain! What a w'eight 1 The pulsation in my own 
heart ceased, and, with a shudder, I released the chilling form 
from my grasp, and found strength barely to bdinpose the limbs 
oiice more in the bed beside mci 


384 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I pass over the usual and unnecessary details. There was a 
show of inquiry of course ; but the one word of the learned 
young gentleman in black silenced any further examination. It 
was shown to the inquest by Mrs. Porterfield that my wife had 
been sick — that she was suddenly found dead. The physician 
mrnislied the next necessary fact. I was not examined at all, 
I steod by in silence, I heard the verdict — Death by apo- 
plexy”- -with a smile. I W85 not unwilling to state the trulh. 
Had I been called upon 1 should have done so. At first I was 
about to proffer my testimony, but a single sentence from the 
lips of Kingsley, when I declared to him my purpose, silenced 
me : — 

“ If you are not afraid to declare your own act, you should 
at least scruple to denounce her shame ! She died your wife. 
Let. that seal your tongue. The shame would be shared be- 
tween you ! Yov could only justify your crime by exposing 
kers !” 

With the stern strength of desperation I stood above the 
grave, and lieard the heavy clod ring hollowly upon the coffin. 
And there closed two lives in one. My hopes were buried 
there as effectually as her unconscious form. 

Life is not breath simply. Not the capacity to move, and 
breathe, to act, eat, drink, sleep, and say, “ Thank God ! we 
have ahj, drank, and slept!” The life of humanity consists in 
hope, love, and labor. In the capacity to desire, to affect, ant 
to struggle. I had now nothing for which I could hope, nothing 
to love, nothing to struggle for ! 

Yes ! life has something more : — endurance I This is a part 
of the allotment. The conviction of this renewed my strength 
But it was- the strength of desolation ! I had taken courage 
from despair ! 


REYELAXION — ^THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


385 


CHAPTER LIII. 

REVELATIOE" — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 

It must be remembered, that, in all this time — amidst all 
my agonies — my feelings of destitution and despair — I had 
few or no doubts of the guilt of Julia Clifford. My sufferings 
arose from the love which I had felt — the defeat of my hopes 
and fortune — the long struggle of conflicting feelings, mortified 
pride, and disappointed enjoyment. Excited by the melancholy 
spectacle before me — beholding the form of her, once so beauti- 
ful — still so beautiful — whom I had loved with such an absorb- 
ing passion — whom I could not cease to love — suddenly cut 
off from life — her voice, which was so musical, suddenly hushed 
for ever — the tides of her heart suddenly stopped — and all the 
sweet waters of hope dried up in her bosom, and turned into 
bitterness and blight in mine — the force of my feelings got the 
better of my reason, and cruel and oppressive doubts of the 
justness of her doom overpowered my soul. But, with the 
subsiding of my emotions, under the stern feeling of resolve 
which came to my relief, and which my course of education en- 
abled me to maintain, my persuasions of her guilt were resumed, 
and I naturally recurred to the conclusions which had originally 
justified me to myself, in inflicting the awful punishment of 
death upon her. But I was soon to be deprived of this justi- 
fication — to be subjected to the terrible recoil of all my feelings 
of justice, love, honor and manliness, in the new and over- 
whelming conviction, not only that I had been premature, but 
that she was innocent ! — innocent, equally of thought and deed, 
which could incur the repfoach of impurity, or the punishment 
of guilt* 


11 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


3fc(i 

Three days had elapsed after her burial, when I re-opened 
and re-appeared in my office. I did not re-open it w'ith any in- 
tention to resume my business. That was impossible in a place, 
where, at every movement, the grave of my victim rose, always 
grcenv in my sight. My purpose was to put my papers in order, 
transfer them to other parties, dispose of my effects, and depart 
with Kingsley to the new countries, of which he had succeeded 
in impressing upon me some of his own opinions. Not that 
these furnished for me any attractions. I was not persuaded by 
any customary arguments held out to the ambitious and the 
enterprising. It was a matter of small moment to me where I 
went, so that I left the present scene of my misery and over- 
throw. In determining to accompany him to Texas, no part of 
my resolve was influenced by the richness of its soil, or the 
greatness of its probable destinies. These, though important 
in the eyes of my friend, were as nothing in mine. In taking 
that route my object was simply, to go with him. Ke had 
sympathized with me, after a rough fashion of his own, the sin- 
cerity of which was more dear to me than the roughress was 
repulsive. He had witnessed my cares — he knew my guilt 
and my griefs — this knowledge endeared him to me more 
strongly than ever, and made him now more necessary to my 
affections than any other living object. 

I re-opened my office and resumed my customary scat at the 
table. But I sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts 
which, following the track of memory, diverted my sight as well 
as my mind, from all present objects. I saw nothing before me, 
except vaguely, and in a sort of shadow. I had a hazy outline 
of books against the wall ; and a glimmering show of papers 
and bundles upon the table. I sat thus for some time, lost in 
painful and humiliating revery. Suddenly I caught a glimpse 
of a packet on the table, which I did not recollect to have seen 
before. It bore my name. I shuddered to behold it, for it was 
in the handwriting of my wife. Tliis, then, was the writing 
Upon which she had been secretly engaged, for so many days, 
and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me the first intimation. 
I remembered the words of Julia when she assured me that it 
was intended for me — when she playfully challenged my curi- 
osity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to klicv^ ^he 


liEVfiLAtiON — THE LETTEK OP JULIA. B8Y 

Contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner 
now rose vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now 
— now that the irrevocable step had been taken— far more than 
it ever could have atfected me then. Then, indeed, I remained 
unaffected save by the caprice of my evil genius. The demon 
of the blind heart was then uppermost. In vain now did I sum- 
mon him to my relief. Where was he ? Why did he not come ? 

I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nerves 
almost failed me. My heart shrank and sank with painful pre- 
sentiments. What could this writing mean ? Of what had 
Julia Clifford to write? Her whole world’s experience was con- 
tained, and acquired, in my household. The only portion of 
this experience which she might suppose unknown to me was 
her intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion, then, was 
natural that this writing related to this matter ; but, if natural, 
why had I not conjectured it before ? Why, when I first heard 
of it, had the conclusion not forced itself upon me as directly as 
it did now ? Alas ! it was clear to me now that I was then 
blind ; and, with this clearness of sight, my doubts increased ; 
but they were doubts of myself, rather than doubts of her. 

It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently 
to break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and re- 
closed the office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, 
to me it was the language of a voice from the grave. It con- 
tained the last words of one I never more should hear. The 
words of one whom I had loved as I could never love again. 
It was due to her, and to my own heart, that she should be 
heard in secret ; — that her words — whether in reproach or re- 
pentence — whether in love or scorn — should fall upon mine 
ear without witness, in a silence as solemn as was that desolate 
feeling which now sat, like a spectre, brooding among the ruins 
of my heart. 

My pulses almost ceased to beat — my respiration was impeded 
— my eyes swam — my senses reeled in dismay and confusion 
— as I read the following epistle. Too late ! too late ! Blind, 
blind heart ! And still I was not mad !— No I no !— that would 
have been a mercy which I did not merit I—that would have 
been forgetfulness— utter oblivion of the woe which I can never 
cease to feel. 


388 


CONFESSIOi^, OR THE BLIHD HEART. 


THE LAST LETTER OF JULIA. 

■' TIusbanu, bear husband !"■ 

I write to you in fear and trembling. I have striven to 
speak to you, more than once, but my tongue and strength have 
failed me. What I have to tell you is so strange and offensive, 
and will be to you so startling, that you will find it hard to 
believe me ; and yet, dear husband, there is not a syllable of it 
which is not true ! If I knew that I were to die to-morrow I 
could with perfect safety and confidence make the same confes- 
sion which I make now. But I do not wish you to take what I 
say on trust ; look into the matter yourself — not precipitately 
— above all, not angrily — and you will see that I say nothing 
here which the circumstances will not prove. Indeed, my 
wonder is that so much of it has remained unknown to 
you already. 

“Husband, Mr. Egerton deceives you — he has all along de- 
ceived you — he is neither your friend nor mine. I would call 
him rather the most dangerous enemy; for he comes by stealth, 
and abuses confidence, and, like the snake in the fable, seeks to 
sting the vcry^ hand that has warmed him. I know how much 
this will startle 3^11, for I know how much you think of him, and 
love him, and how maii}^ are the obligations which you owe to his 
father. But hear me to the end, and 3mu will be convinced, as 
I have been, that, so far from your seeking his society and per- 
mitting his intimacy in our household, you would be justified in 
the adoption of very harsh measures for his expulsion — at least, it 
would become 3’our duty to inform him that 3'ou can no longer suffer 
his visits. 

“To begin, then, dear hus])and, Mr. Egerton has been bold 
enough to speak to me in such language, as was insulting in 
him to utter, and cquall}^ painfid and humiliating for me to hear. 
Tie has done this, not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but many 
times. You will ask why I have not informed you of this be- 
fore ; but I had several reasons for forbearing to do so, which I 
will relate in the proper places. I fancied that I could cffectu- 
ally repel iirsult of this sort without making you a party to it, 
for I feared the violence of your temper, and dreaded that the 
con.sequences might ])e bloodshed. I am only prompted to take 


REVELATION THE LETTER OE JULIA. 


389 


a different course now, as I find that I was mistaken in this impres- 
sion — and perceive that there is no hope of a remedy against the 
impertinence but by appealing to you for protection. 

“It was not long after our marriage before the attentions of 
Mr, Edgeiton became so particular as to annoy me ; and I con- 
sulted my mother on the subject, but she assured me that such 
were customary, and so long as you were satisfied I had no 
reason to be otherwise. I was not quite content with this assur- 
ance, but did not know what other course to take, and there 
was nothing in the conduct of Mr. Edgerton so very marked 
and offensive as to justify me in making any communication to 
you. What offended me in his bearing was his fixed and com 
tinned watchfulness — the great earnestness of his looks — the 
subdued tones of his voice when he spoke to me, almost falling 
to a whisper, and the unusual style of his language, which 
seemed to address itself to such feelings only as do not belong 
to the common topics of discourse. The frequency of his visits 
to the studio afforded him opportunities for indulging in these 
practices ; and your strange indifference to his approaches, and 
your equally strange and most unkind abandonment of my society 
for that of others, increased these opportunities, of which he 
scrupled not to take Constant advantage. I soon perceived 
that he sought the house only at the periods when you were 
absent. He seemed always to know when this was the case; 
and I noted the fact, particularly, that, if^ on such occasions, you 
happened to arrive unexpectedly he never remained long after- 
ward, but took his departure with an abruptness that, it seemed 
wonderful to me you should not have perceived. Conduct so 
strange as this annoyed rather than alarmed me ; and it made 
me feel wretched, perhaps beyond any necessity for it, when I 
found myself delivered up, as it were, to such persecution, by 
the very person whose duty it was to preserve me, and whose 
own presence, which would have been an effectual protection, 
was so dear to me always. Ho not suppose, dear Edward, that 
I mean to reproach you. I do not know what may have been 
your duties abroad, and the trials which drew you so much 
from home, and from the eyes of a wife who knows no dearer 
object of contemplation than the form of her husband. Men 
in business, I know, have a thousand troubles out of doors, 


390 


CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEAET. 


wliicli a generous sensibility makes them studious never to bring 
home with them ; and, knowing this, I determined to think 
lovingly of you always — to believe anything rather than that 
you W'ould willingly neglect me;— and, by the careful exercise 
of my thoughts and affections, as they should properly be exercised, . 
so to protect m}^ own dignity and your honor, as to spare 3^ou any 
trouble or risk in asserting them, and, at the same time, to save both 
from reproach. 

“But, though I think I maintained the most rigid reserve, as 
well of looks as of language, this unhappy young man con- 
tinued his persecutions. In order to avoid him, I abandoned 
my usual labors in the studio. From the moment when I saw’- 
that he w^as disposed to abuse the privileges of friendship, I 
yielded that apartment entirely to him, and invariably declined 
seeing him when he visited the house in the mornings. But I 
could not do this at evening ; and this became finally a most 
severe trial, for it so happened, that you now’^ adopted a habit 
w’hich left him entirely unrestrained, unless in the manner of his 
reception by myself. You now seldom remained at home of an 
evening, and thus deprived me of that natural protector whose 
presence w’ould have spared me much pain with which I will 
not distress you. Ah ! dearest husband, w^hy did you leave me 
on such occasions ? Why did you abandon me to the two-fold 
affliction of combating the approaches of impertinence, at the 
very moment when I was suffering from the dreadful apprehen- 
sion that I no longer possessed those charms which had won me the 
affections of a husband. Forgive me! My purpose is not to reproach, 
but to entreat you. 

“I need not pass over the long period through which this 
persecution continued. Your indifference seemed to me to give 
stimulus to the perseverance of this young man. Numberless 
little circumstances combined to make me think that, from this 
cause, indeed, he drew something like encouragement for his 
audacious hopes. The strength of your friendship for him 
blinded j’-ou to attentions which, it seemed to me, every eye 
must have seen but yours. I grew more and more alarmed ; 
and a second time consulted with my mother. Her WTitten 
answer you will find, marked No. 1, with the rest of the enclo- 
sures in this envelope. She laughed at my apprehensions, in 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


391 


sisted that Mr. Edgerton had not transcended the customary 
privileges, and intimated, very plainly as you will see, that a 
wife can suffer nothing from the admiration of a person, not her 
husband, however undisguised this admiration may be— pro- 
vided she herself' shows none in return ; — an opinion with which 
I could not concur, for the conclusive reason that, whatever the 
world may think on such a subject, the object of admiration, if 
she has any true sensibilities, must herself suffer annoyance, as 
I did, from the special designation which attends such peculiar 
and marked attention as that to which I was subjected. My 
mother took much pains, verbally and in writing, as the within 
letters will show you, to relieve me from the feeling of disquiet 
under which I suffered, but without effect ; and I was further 
painfully afflicted by the impression which her general tone of 
thought forced upon me, that her sense of propriety was so loose 
and uncertain that I could place no future reliance upon her 
councils in relation to this or any other kindred subject. Ah, Ed- 
ward ! little can you guess how lonely and desolate I felt, when, 
unable any longer to refer to her, I still did not dare to look 
to you. 

“One opinion of hers, however, had very much alarmed me. 
You will find it expressed in the letter marked Ko. 3, in this 
collection. When I complained to her of the approaches of 
Mr. Edgerton, and declared my purpose of appealing to you if 
they were continued, she earnestly and expressly exhorted me 
against any such proceeding. She assured me that such a 
step would only lead to violence and bloodshed — reminded 
me of your sudden anger — your previous duel — and insisted 
that nothing more was necessary to check the impertinence 
than my own firmness and dignity. Perhaps this would 
have been enough, were it always practicable to maintain the 
reserve and coldness which was proper to effect this object, 
and, indeed, I could not but perceive that the effect was pro- 
duced in considerable degree by this course. Mr. Edgerton 
visited the house less frequently ; grew less impressive in his 
manner, and much more humble, until that painful and humili- 
ating night of my mother’s marriage. That night he asked me 
to dance witli him. I declined ; but afterward he came to me 
accompanied by ray mother. She whispered in my ears that I 


592 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

was harsh in my refusal, and called my attention to his wretch 
ed appearance. Had I reflected upon it then, as I did after- 
ward, this very allusion would have been sufficient to have 
determined me not to consent ; — but I was led away by her 
suggestions of pity, and stood up with him for a cotillion. But 
the music changed, the set was altered, and the Spanish dance 
was substituted in its place. In the course of this dance, I 
could no*- deceive myself as to the degree of presumption which 
my partner displayed ; and, but for the appearance of the thing, 
and because I did not wish to throw the room into disorder, I 
would have stopped and taken my seat long before it w'as over. 
When I did take my seat, I found myself still attended by him, 
and it was with difficulty that I succeeded finally in defeating 
his perseverance, by throwing myself into the midst of a set of 
elderly ladies, where he could no longer distinguish me with 
his attentions. In the meantime you had left the room. You 
had deserted me. Ah ! Clifford, to what annoyance did your 
absence expose me that night ! To that absence, do we owe 
that I lost the only dear pledge of love that God had ever vouch- 
safed us — and you know how greatly my own life was perilled. 
Think not, dearest, that I speak this to reproach you ; and yet 
— could you have remained! — could you have loved, and 
longed to be and remain with me, as most surely did I long for 
your presence only and always — ah! how much sweeter had 
been our joys — how more pure our happiness — our faith — with 
noAv — perhaps, even now — the dear angel whom we then lost, 
living and smiling beneath our eyes, and linking our mutual 
hearts more and more firmly together than before ! 

“ That night, when it became impossible to remain longer 
without trespassing — when all the other guests had gone — 1 
consented to be taken home in Mr. Edgerton’s carriage. Had 
I dreamed that Mr. Edgerton was to have been my companion, 
I should have remained all night before I would have gone with 
him, knowing what I knew, and feeling the mortification which 
I felt. But my mother assured me that I was to have the car- 
riage to myself — it was she who had procured it ; — and it was 
not until I was seated, and beheld him enter, that I had tlr 
least apprehension of such an intrusion. Edward ! it is with a 
feelina almost amountins: to horror, that I am constrained tr 


MV^ELATfON— THE LEriER OE JULIA. 


39 : 


tiiliik that my mother not only knew of his intention to a; 
company me, but that she herself suggested it. This, I say to 
you / You will find the reasons for my suspicions in the letters 
which I enclose. It is a dreadful suspicion — at the expense of 
cn3’c own mother ! I dare not believe in the dark malice which 

implies. — I strive to think that she meant and fancied onl}' 
some pleasant mischief, 

* I shudder to declare the rest ! This man, your friend —ha 
//horn you sheltered in your bosom, and trusted beyond all 
others — whom you have now taken into your house with a 
blindness that looks more like a delusion of witchcraft than of 
friendship — this impious man, I say, dared to wrap me in his 
embrace — dared to press his lips upon mine ! 

"My cheek even now burns as I write, and I must lay dowr 
the pen because of my trembling I strugo-led from his gras^ 
—'I broke the window by my side, and cried for help from the 
wayfarers. I cried fcr you! .But you did not answer! Oh, 
husband i where were you ? Why, why did you expose me tj 
such indignities ? 

“He was alarmed. He prjrrised me forbearance, and, con- 
vulsed with fright and fear, I found mysolf within our enclosi'ie, 
1 knew not how; but before I reached the cottage I became in- 
sensible, and knew nothing more until the pangs of labor 
subdued the more lasting pains of thought and recollection. 

“You resolved to leave our home — to go abroad among 
stranger s, and Oh 1 how I rejoiced at your resolution. It seem- 
ed to promise me happiness ; at least it promised me rescue and 
rvMef. 1 should at all events be free from the persecution of 
tij.is man Tdriaded the consequences, either to you or to him- 
of the exposure of his insolence. I had resolved on 
.■risking t; and on'y hesitated, day by day, as my mother dwelt 
Ti the dangers which would follow. And when you deter- 
i d on removal, it seemed to me the most fortunate provi- 
i . it promised to spare me the necessity of making this 

r^^rinful r 37 clation at aY. Surely, I thought, and my mother 
as this will f ut an efi*'ictral stop to his presumption, there 
Ll >e no need to narrate what is already past. The only mo- 
; - in telling it at all wmld be to prevent, not to punish : if 
Cc ’? me/ •' A is effected by oth'.r means, it is charity only tc 


i^9'l CONFESSION, OE THE HLlNi) HEART. 

forbear the relation of matters which would breed hatred, and 
probably provoke strife. This made me silent ; and . fcJl 
of new hope — the hope that having discarded all your olo 
associates and removed from all your old haunts, you wcu?'? 
become mine entirely — I felt a new strength in my frar''o 
a new life in my breast, and a glow upon my cheeks as wiv-,: 
in my soul, which seemed a guaranty for a long and ha; 7 
term of that love which had begun in my boscm with the 
moments of its childish consciousness and confidence. 

“ But one painful scene and hour I was yet compelled to en- 
dure the night before our departure. Mr. Edgerton came to 
play his flute under our window. I say Mr. Edgerton, but it 
was only by a sort of instinct that I fixed upon him as the 
musician. Perhaps it was because I knew not what other per- 
son to suspect. Frequently, before this night, had I beard l'. J 
music ; but on this occasion he seemed to have approached more 
nearly to the dwelling ; and, indeed, I finally d'iscovered that he 
was actually beneath the China-tree that stood on the sou.n 
front of the cottage. I was asleep when the music began. He 
must have been playing for some cime before I awakened. Hov 
I was awakened I know not ; but something disturbed me, and 
I then saw you about to leave the room stealthily. T heard 
your feet upon the stairs, and in the next moment I discovered 
one of your pistols lying upon the window-sill, just beneath my 
eyes. This alarmed me ; a thousand apprehensions rushed into 
my brain ; all the suggestions of strife and bloodshed n hich my 
mother had ever told me, filled my mind; and without 
exactly what I did or said, I called out to the musician i:r fi ' 
with all possible speed. He did so ; and after a delay whicii 
was to me one of the most cruel apprehension, you returned in 
safety. Whether you suspected, and what, I could not conjoi 
ure; but if you had any suspicions of me, you did not seem tr 
entertain any of him, for you spoke of him afterward with the 
same warm tone of friendship as before. 

“ That something in my conduct 'had not pleased you, I could 
see from your deportment as we travelled the next morning 
You were sad, and very silent and abstracted. This disap 
peared, however, and, day by day, my happiness, my hope, my 
confidence in you, in myself, in all things, increased — and I 


REVELATION-- THE LETTER OF JULIA. 89/ 

felt assured of realiziug that perfect idea of felicity which 1 piv 
posed to myself from the moment when you declared your pur 
pose to emigrate. Were we not happy, husband — so happy at 

M , for weeks, for months — always, morning, noon, anc 

night — until the reappearance of this false friend of yours 1 
Then, it seemed to me as if everything changed. Then, that 
other friend of yours — who, though he never treated me with 
aught but respect, I yet can call no friend of mine — Mr 
Kingsley, drew you away again from your home — carried you 
with him to his haunts — detained you late and long, by night 
and day — and I was left once more exposed to the free and 
frequent familiarity of Mr. Edgerton. He renewed his former 
habits ; his looks were more presuming, and his attentions more 
direct and loathsome than ever. More than once I strove to 
speak with you on this hateful subject ; but it was so shocking, 
and you were so fond of him, and I still had my fears ! At 
length, moved by compassion, you brought him to our house. 
Blind and devoted to him — with a blindness and devotion be- 
yond that which the noblest friendship would deserve, but which 
renders tenfold more hateful the dishonest and treacherous 
person upon whom it is thrown away — you command me to 
meet him with kindness — to tend his bed of sickness — to 
soothe his moments of sadness and despondency — to expose 
ryself to his insolence ! 

* Husband . my soul revolts at this charge ! I have dis- 
; 3y^d it and you ; and I must justify myself in this my dis- 
UxOnce. I must at length declare the truth, i have striven 
.0 JO so in the preceding harrative. This narrative I began 
w er you brought this false friend into our dwelling. He must 
^av 3 it. You must command his departure. Ho not think me 
mo ^ed by any unhappy cr unbecoming prejudices against him 
jxly antipathies have arisen solely from his presumption and 
msconduct. I esteemed him — nay, I even liked him — before. 

liked his taste for the arts, his amiable manners, his love of 
music and poetry, and all those graces of the superior mind and 
vlucation, which dignify humanity, and indicate its probable 
' -‘.sanies But when he showed me how false he was to a 
f^endship so free and confiding as was yours — when he abused 
/ eyes and ears with expressions unbecoming in him, and in* 


396 CONFESSION, OE THE BLIND HEAKT 

suiting and ungenerous to me — I loathed and spurned him. 
While he is in your house I will strive and treat him civilly, 
hut do not tax me further. For your sake I have borne much; 
for the sake of peace, and to avoid strife and crime, I have 
been silent— perhaps too long. The strange, improper letters 
of my mother, which I enclose, almost make me tremble to 
think that I have paid but too much detference to her opinion. 
But, in the expulsion of this miserable man from your dwelling, 
there needs no violence, there needs no crime ! A w'ord will 
overwhelm him with shame. Remember, dear husband, that he is 
feeble and sick; it is probable he has not long to live. Perform 
your painful duty privily, and with all the forbearance which is 
consistent with a proper firmness. In truth, he has done us no 
real harm. Let us remember that! If anything, he has only 
made me love you the more, by showing so strongly how 
generous is the nature which he has so infamously abused. 
Once more, dear husband, do no violence. Let not our future 
daj^s be embittered by any recollections of the present. Com- 
mand, compel his departure, and come home to me, and keep with 
me always. “ Your own true wife, 

“Julia Clifford.” 

“ Postscrij)t, — I had closed this letter yesterday, thinking to 
send it to your office in the afternoon. I had hoped that there 
would be nothing more ; — but last night, this madman — for 
such I must believe him to be — committed another outrage 
upon my person! He has a second time seized me in his arms 
and endeavored to grasp me in his embrace. O husband ! — 
why, why do you thus expose me ? Do you indeed love me ? 
I sometimes tremble with a fear lest you do not. But I dare 
not think so. Yet, if you do, why am I thus exposed — thus 
deserted — thus left to a companionship which is equally loath- 
some to me and dishonoring to you ? I implore you to open 
your eyes — to believe me, and discard this false friend from your 
dwelling and jmur eonffdence. But, oh, be merciful, dear 
husband 1 Strike no sudden blow ! Send him forth with scorn 
but remember his feebleness, his family, and spare his life. I 
send this by Emma. Let no one see the letters of my mother but 
burn them instantly. “Your own Julia,” 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


397 


iVud this was the writing which had employed her time for 
-lays before the sad catastrophe ! And it was for this reason 
'hat she asked, with so much earnestness, if I had been to my 
cffice on the day when I drove Edgerton out into the woods for 
Uie adjustment of our issue 1 No wonder that she was anxious 
at that moment. How much depended upon that simple and 
ordinary proceeding. Had I but gone that day to my office as 
usual ! 

There were no longer doubts. There could be none. There 
' PS now no mystery. It was all clear. The most ambiguous 

f’tions of her conduct had been as easily and simply explained 
e rest. But it availed nothing ! The blow had fallen. I 
vaj an accursed man — truly accursed, and miserably desolate. 

I still sat, stolid, seemingly, as the insensible chair which sus- 
laihed me, when Kingsley came in. He took the papers from 
.ay unresisting hands. He read them in silence. I heard but 

j sentence frcm his lips, and it came from them unconscious- 

■ /'oor, poor girl i'* 

I locked round and started to my feet. The tears were on 
nanly checks I lal ched none. My «»yes were dry ! The 
fountains of tears seemed shut up, kzA dnd -hnsty. 

“I must make atonement!” I exclaimed. “I must delivei 
myself up to justice !” 

“ This is madness,” said he, seizing my arm as I was about 
to leave the room. 

“ No : retribution only ! I have destroyed her. I must 
make the only atonement which is in my power. I must die !’ 

“ What you design is none,” he said solemnly. “ Your 
death will atone nothing. It is by living only that you can 
atone!” 

“How?” 

“By repentance! This is the grand — the only sovereign 
tiionement wmeh the spirit of man can ever make. There is 
no other mode provided in nature. The laws, which would 
take your life, would deprive you of the means of atonement. 
This is due to God ; it can be performed only by living and 
Tvffiiring. Life is a duty because it is an ordeaJ You must 


39^ CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART 

preserve life, as a sacred trust, for this reason. Even if you 
were a felon — one wilfully resolving and coldly executing crime 
—you were yet bound to preserve life ! Throw it away, and 
though you comply with the demand of social laws, you forfeit 
the only chance of making atonement to those which are far 
superior. Rather pray that life may be spared you. It was 
with this merciful purpose that God not only permitted Cain to 
live, hut commanded that none should slay him. You must live 
for this !” 

“ Yet I slew her 

He did with me as he pleased. Three days after beheld us 
on our way to the rich empire of Texas — its plains, rich but 
barren — unstocked, wild — running to waste with its tangled 
weeds — needing, imploring the vigorous hand of cultivation 
Even such, at that moment, was my heart ! Rich in fertixe 
affections, yet gone to waste ; waiting, craving, praying for the 
hand of the cultivator ! — ^Yet who now was that cultivator ? 

To this question the words of Kingsley, which were those of 
truth and wisdom, were a sufficient ansv/er ; and evermore an 
echo arose as from the bottom of my soul ; and my lips repeated 
it to my own ears only ; and hut one word was spcken ; and 
that word was — atonement 


THS WKh. 


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LOVELL’S L8BRARY. 

L-A.TEST IlSSTJES. 


664 At Bay, by Mrs. Alexander 10 

665 Mornings in Florence, by Ruskin..l5 

666 Bjurbara’s Rival, by Ernest Young. 20 


667 Story of a Sculptor, by Conway., .10 
66S St. Mark's Rest, by John Ru8kin..l5 

669 Hilda, by Bertha M. Clay,.* 10 

670 Deucalion, by Ruskin 10 

671 The Scout, by Simms 35 

672 Slings and Arrowy by Conway... JO 

673 Arc of England, by Ruskin 15 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms.oO 

675 A Rainy June, by Ouida 10 

676 Eagle’s Nest, by Ruskin 15 

677 Vasconselos, by Simms 30 

678 .White Heather, by Black. . 20 

679 Our Fathers have Told Us, Ruskin. 15 

680 Confession, by Simms SO 

631 A Girton Girl, by Mrs, Edwards. . .20 
()82 Proserpina, by Ruskin 15 

683 The Ghost’s Touch, by Collins 10 

684 Woodcraft, by Simms 80 

685 Val d’Arno, by Ruskin 15 

686 My Lady’s Money, by Collins 10 

*687 Richard Hurdis, by Simms 30 

688 Love’s Meinie, by Ruskin 15 

689 Her Martyrdom, by B. M. Clay. . .20 

690 Guy B-i vers, by Simms ^^30 

691 A Woman’s Honor, by Young, .7. .20 

692 Lord Lynne’s Choice, B. M. Clay. JO 

693 Border Beagles, by W. G. Simms.. 30 

694 The Shadow of a Sin, B. M. Clay. .10 


695 Wedded and Parted, by B. M. Clay.lO 

696 The Master of the Mine, Buchanan JO 

697 'The Forayers, by Simms 30 

698 The Mistletoe Bough, M.E.Braddon, 20 

699 Self or Bearer, Walter Besant, ..JO 

700 In Cupid’s Net, by B. M. Clay 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret, B. M. Clay. .20 

702 Charlemont, by W. G, Simms ... .30 

703 Eutaw, by W. G. Simms SO 

704 Evolution, Rev. C. F. Deems, D.D.20 

705 Beauchampe, by W. G. Simms 30 

700 No. 99, by Arthur Griffiths 10 

707 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t I. 30 

708 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t II.. SO 

709 Woman against Woman, by Holmes. iwO 

710 Picciola, by J. X. B. Saintine 10 

711 Undine, by Baron de la Motto 

Fouque 10 

712 Woman, by August Bebel lO 

713 Fora Clavigera, by Ruskin, P’t III. 30 

714 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t IV.SO 

715 A Cardinal Sin, by Hugh Con way. 20 

716 A Crimson Stain, Annie Bradshaw. 20 

717 ACountryGentleman,Mrs.Oliphant.20 

718 A Gilded Sin, by B. M. Clay 10 

719 Rory O'More, by Samuel Lover. . . .20 

720 Between Two Loves, B. M. Clay... 20 

721 Lady Branksmere, by The Duchess. 20 

722 The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Collins.20 
721 Running the Gauntlet, by Yates. . .20 

724 Broken to Harness, Edmund Yates.20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love, Margaret Lee,. 25 

726 Austin Eliot, by Henry Kingsley,, 20 


727 For Another’s Sin, by B. M. Clay. .20 

728 TheHillyars and Burtons, Kingsley 20 

729 In Prison and Out, by Stretton 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

732 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. ,20 

733 A Queen amongst Women, by Clay.lO 

734 Vineta, by E. Werner .20 

735 A Mental Straggle, The Duche?s..20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. Kingsley. 30 

737 The Haunted Chamber, ‘’Duchess’MO 

738 A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

739 Like no Other Love, by B. M. Clay.lO 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay.20 

741 Lorimer and Wife, by Margaret Lee.20 

742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland. 10 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No; 2, by Howland, 10 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin.. 20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay.. . .20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland JO 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau.... .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Airs. Forrester 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762*Gocial Solutions, No, 4, by Ilowland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Alystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland. 10 

706 Vixen, by Miss Braddon 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson 20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Air. Hyde, hj R. L. Stevenson 10 

769 Prince Otto, byR. L. Stevenson. . JO 

770 The D^mamitcr, byR. L. Stevenson. 20 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by B. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Alysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Alysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, byHowland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDuraas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The Wandering Jew. Part II.,bySue.20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alexander.20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Ilowland.lO 

779 Aly Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris. JO 

780 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart. . , 10 

781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 

782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland. 10 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon,, .,10 


4 

Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will bo 
sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

JOim W. LOYELL COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND IG Yesey Street, New York. 



The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic Aveaknesses and 
distressing- ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surjgical In- 
stitute, Buifalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting- and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of Avoman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgroAvth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians Avho haAm 
tested it in the more aggra Abated and 
obstinate cases Avhich had baffled their 
skill, proAm it to be the most Avonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
^cure of suffering Avomen. It is not re- 
I commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
. most perfect Specitio for Avoman’s 
■peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 
.tonic it imparts strength to the Avhole 
^■system, and to the uterus, or Avomb and 
, its appendages, in particular. For OA^er- 
worked, “Avorn-out,” “run-dOAvn,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s FaA'orite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a sootliing and strengtlien- 
iiig nervine, “ FaA'orite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is inA’aluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerA"- 
■ ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. _ 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 
carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless in its effects in any 
condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ Avhites,” excessiA^e ilOAving at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the Avomb, Aveak back, “ female Aveak- 
ncss,” anteversion, retroA^ersion, bearing- 
doAvn sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the Avomb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied Avith internal heat. 

Ill pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, Aveakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do aAvay with the sufferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxatiA’e doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
PurgatiA^e Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times Avomen call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liA^er or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easj'-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for Avhich he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
Avhen, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some Avomb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
largo bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably Avorse 
by reason of the delay, Avrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s FaA'orite 
Prescx’iption, directed to the cause would 
haA'e entirely remoA’ed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

‘^Favorite Prescription” is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
giA^e satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle- Avrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Fargo bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 
KO. 668 Main Street, BUFFALO, N. Y. 




-THE • B E6T- FOR- TEMPER -SKIMS -AND -CHAFP EP- HAMDi 


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